


A Kaleidoscope of Crystals and Lasers

by Toyosatomimi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Touhou Project
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But set in ASOIAF, F/F, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jorah Mormont, POV Tyrion Lannister, People being Bastards, Some characters deserve help, and other povs, some don't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toyosatomimi/pseuds/Toyosatomimi
Summary: The red streak tears across the night sky, bringing into the world of Ice and Fire things that should not exist. The religious are getting more fanatic, cults are birthed from thin air, and demons are brought forth into existence. A sea of red, a night full of rainbows, and a castle filled to the brim with darkness.Those who play the game of thrones are caught unaware, and soon realise that chaos shall reign the world.(Or what happens when a select group of troublemakers from Gensokyo is transported to the world of ASOIAF. Some alliances are made, some deaths are given, all-in-all a bit of chaos for everyone.)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Colourful People

**Crownlands**

King's Landing has never appeared more queer than these past few weeks. Rodrik never lived inside the city; the smell and clamour are far too much for him. However, his house and farmstead is only a league away from its walls. The best businesses and merchants thrive there, and with the long summer, harvest has been quite bountiful for his family.

_But those blasted lights._

The thing in sky is the first to appear, a terrifying streak dyeing the night in red. _A burning star they say._ It became the talk of the region, filled with fearful gossips and uncertainty. But a travelling merchant assured them that the thing is harmless, nothing more than a comet. He doesn't know what that is, but it apparently come and goes every few thousands of years or so. It'll probably be the same for this one after a few months.

But superstitions are hard to quell. With news of House Lannister spreading death and chaos across the Riverlands, the thing in the sky appears to him as a bloody streak. Lannister red. Is it really a coincidence that such omens are foretold?

Then came the lights from King's Landing. Dazzling, colourful rays piercing bright into the sky, cutting through the clouds. So curious he was that he took the time off to go into the city with his wife and watch it all at the Sept of Baelor. It was the first time since King Robert's crowning that he saw the High Septon, the Fat One as his wife called him. The bloated High Septon's appearance reminded him of tales of corruption present within the Faith. Rodrik was never a pious man; he prays but doesn't follow all of the Faith's rules. What he saw in the Fat One his trust in the Faith lowered, and yet...

The lights came on. Bursting with energy and movement, they shone from the crystal spires in seven colours. So colourful they were that entire swathes of the crowd were bathed in blue, red, and other dazzling colours. Their warmth enveloped him, like the embrace of the Seven. It was a holy miracle, a sight that brought tears to both him and his wife.

The Fat One was talking then, but he paid him no heed. It was only later that he heard the talk of the town: holy messengers of the Seven were sent from the heaven to lead them in these dark times. Dark times of what? Rodrik does not know, but he feels assured that someone is watching over them.

But over time, the lights have lost a bit of their glamour. Gone were his fascinations and wonder, leaving only a slight annoyance of the lights shining during the times he should be asleep. Every sundown, every sunrise, and at the hour of the bat; the High Septon is adamant in leading prayers. _Those poor messengers,_ Rodrik thinks, yawning after waking up at midnight. _He's treating those holy ones no more than entertainment for the masses. I've yet to see the Sept treat the sick and ill in the streets. Ah, why must they be so lost? Maybe that's why those messengers came: to be rid of them._

Rodrik steps out of his house, feeling quite parched. With the lights making the clouds above glow, it nearly outshines the Bloody Streak as some in the city have called it. But then what is that thing? The King returned from the hunt wounded from a boar, and talks of his imminent death are present even in those who are optimistic. _Death and hope, shining brilliantly in the sky. Is this the Gods' way of waging war?_

Rodrik sighs. Such theological thoughts are far too above him. Those are the matter of the Gods and the Sept, not some farmer in a field of vegetables. As long as they can assure his family's well-being, then he has nothing to fear.

He heads towards his well, just across his field. Luckily for him, the bright lights allow him to walk in the night without tripping. He throws down the bucket and hears a splash. Satisfied that the bucket might already be filled, he turns the crank to draw the bucket out. It's so quiet now, not a single chirp of insects or birds. When the Sept's prayers are finished, he's sure to get a peaceful sleep.

He turns the crank with two hands, feeling it to be quite heavier than usual. _Ugh, I should've built a cover for the well. Don't tell me this is another rabbit?_ The last time one decided to jump into the well, the water was ruined for weeks and he had to use his neighbour's. Since they're not on friendly terms, their interactions were quite awkward. _Maybe that's the omen, another dead rabbit in the well._

_..._

_Did I oil the winches? It's not creaking as it used to._

Pulling out the bucket, he tips it out in the light of the Sept and sees... Nothing. _Nothing?_ There's not even water spilling from it, yet it still feels as heavy as a sack of potatoes. _Strange..._ He kicks the bucket over.

A bright flash blinds him, causing him to reel back and stumble on something large. He trips and lands on a multitude of sharp points, piercing his flesh and bones. He lets out a pained scream... But there's no sound. To his horror he can't make a sound. "HELP!" he shouts, but there's nothing. Not even the flailing of his arms cause a splash. But he can still feel his throat straining at the attempted shout. He tries to get up, but the points stabbing into his back secures him in place. He can feel warmth slowly draining from his body.

Weakly reaching behind him, he realises that he's stuck on his harrow. His newly sharpened harrow. _Wha? Didn't I... Place it..._ The chirps and the blowing wind returns, filling the world with sounds of life. There's even a faint sound of laughter echoing within. The light from the Sept dims and disappears one by one. The time for prayers is over. Now, only sleep awaits him.

**Sept of Baelor**

"Your Holiness, our holy brother Septon Symon wants an audience with you. He has brought a guest."

"So early in the morning?" _I haven't even touched my meat yet... Oh bother, might as well get this over with._ "Oh do please let them in, fellow brother of the Faith."

The holy brother closes the door as the High Septon readies himself for this meeting. The sun has yet to rise and he still needs to prepare for the Dawn Hymns for today. However, feeling in good spirits, he allows this single interruption. Besides, he knows Septon Symon quite well.

Two men enter the room. One is the recognisable figure of Septon Symon, wearing his holy garb with seven colours and crystals adorning it. A high-ranking clergy must look the part after all, especially for serving the faith for so long. But following behind him is a smaller figure, looking no older than seventeen of age. He is quite dishevelled, his robes and breeches nothing more than cheap and brown fabrics. His hair is dirty and the face is full of freckles, hiding eyes full of fear. Walking barefoot, he tracks mud on the marble floor. But what stands out the most to the High Septon is the smell. _It reeks! Just like those whorehouses in Flea Bottom!_

But the High Septon keeps his calm; the boy looks to be a fellow Holy Brother, perhaps a poorer one. And the Sept has to accept all sorts of people. "Oh, Septon Symon, it is rare to see you so early in the day. Have you had breakfast yet, Septon Symon? It is the most important meal of the day. But, do tell me, I do not recognise the fellow holy brother by your side. Who might he be?"

Septon Symon bows along with the holy brother. "Thank you for seeing us, High Septon. This is Brother Wymar, hailing from the streets of Flea Bottom."

"I-It is an honour to meet you Holiness!" The boy bows again. He looks nervous and panicky, his eyes darting from the statues to the crystal windows and to others in the room.

 _Flea Bottom._ The thought of that stinking place sends a shiver down the High Septon. A foul place, full of shit and whorehouses and pigsties. _Of course that's where the boy comes from. So why did you bring filth to this holy place, Septon Symon?_ "It is always great to see a fellow of the Faith, Brother Wymar. O, you are shaking. Have you an important mattter for us to discuss, Brother Wymar?"

"Ye-Yes your Holiness," the boy bows again, fidgeting with his hands. _At least he knows when to show respect,_ the High Septon smirks. "Some... Some foul things have been happening in Flea Bottom, your Holiness. P-People murdered left and right in the dead of night. Even the Healer of Flea Bottom c-couldn't heal the one who survived, your Holiness. We had... We had to put them down."

 _Oh,_ this _issue._ "Ah, those strange murders? Yes, I've heard of them, o holy brother. It is such a morbid affairs happening in King's Landing. First the murders and now the King's injuries... Truly, the Messengers of the Seven couldn't have come at a better time. Rest assured Brother Wymar, we pray every day to those who are suffering. Day and night, upon waking and sleeping. However," the High Septon leans forward in his seat, "this is the first time I've heard of a 'healer' in Flea Bottom. Tell me, Brother Wymar, who are they?"

"O-oh, um... They're a visiting healer, your Holiness. A foreigner from a far land. Been healing the sick and crippled, even make some of them walk again. They're-"

"Ah, healing the crippled did they? Tell me, Brother Wymar, could that not be trickery?"

"I'm sorry, your Holiness?" the boy asks, stepping back from the High Septon's gaze.

"Trickery, o Brother Wymar. You say this person is a foreigner, this _healer._ What do we know of their strange customs when they practice this art of healing? I suspect that they don't even follow the Westerosii manners or the Faith of the Seven. Tell me, Brother Wymar, have you ever heard of the Skagosii?"

"S-Skagos, your Holiness?"

"Yes. Skagos, o holy brother, is a part of Westeros. And yet they've refused our way of living and the Faith as well. They still practice the forbidden tradition of cannibalism, the eating of each other's flesh!" The boy tremble before the High Septon's descriptions. The imagery of such people is no doubt instilling fear in his head. "And if this 'Healer of Flea Bottom' have come from even further away, wouldn't you suspect them of being the killer you chase? Why wouldn't they be the ones carrying this monstrous attitude? A wolf in sheep's skin, as the Crone might say. Is it not?"

The boy looks flabbergasted, unsure on what to say next. The High Septon smiles at his work. "Um- Ah-"

"I think that's enough meandering for now, High Septon," Septon Symon interrupts, looking irritated from the little diatribe. "Boy, tell him what you saw."

"B-But-"

"TELL him."

"Y-Yes, Septon Symon," the boy bows again. This time, his face looks even paler than before. "Last night, I-I think just after the Midnight Hymns, I was walking down one of the alleys in Flea Bottom. Preaching, your Holiness, near a whorehouse named Silk Skin. I-"

"Did you go into the whorehouse, boy?"

"I-I-"

"High Septon, please do refrain from cutting off his story. Continue, and ignore his questioning for now." Septon Symon glares at his superior, much to the shock of the High Septon. Anger is beset in his steely grey eyes.

_What is going on here!?_

"I-I went down the alleyway, preaching for bread and copper like I usually do. Then, I heard this scream. Loud scream, your Holiness, from one of the off-shoot roads. I-I peer' round t' corner and... " The boy pauses, gulping. "I saw them. I 'eard a rustle and cats, and when I look over, I saw... I saw a dead man. Torn in two, your Holiness, but there ain't blood. And I saw the killers.

"At end of the street, hiding in shadows, there were two girls talking over the corpse. I-I couldn't tell what they were doing or talking, but I saw one wield a fire sword, you Holiness. The other..." The boy whimpers at the memory. "The other was eating t'arm. Long nails like birds. I-I pissed my breeches and came away screaming. They chased me down, tearing up doors, and, and-"

"He stayed over at my cousin's house at Flea Bottom," Septon Symon says, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Was pale as a corpse, like he had seen the Other. Luckily, I was there to visit family, and so I've come here."

"Yes, and so you've came," the High Septon sighs. He's still on edge for what might happen next. "However, I don't see how this is a matter of the Sept, Septon Symon. But, as you've come all the way to tell me of this, then I will make an exception. At the Dawn Hymns, I will lead the prayers to those whose lives are lost and those who are grieving in Flea Bottom. It will ease their hearts in mourning."

"That's not what we want, High Septon," Septon Symon steps closer to the desk. "What we want is for you to stop this ludicrous mummer's lights."

"...What?"

"You heard me. These lights that you're doing, they are unholy. They're not messengers of the Maiden, nor are they any other parts of the Seven, High Septon. They are DEMONS! Demons that pulled the wool over your damn eyes!" Symon shouts, slamming his fist onto the desk. The High Septon flinches, but relents.

"Nonsense! Complete and utter nonsense!" scream the High Septon, spittle dribbling onto the table. "They are Messengers of the Seven, Septon Symon. Not demons or ghouls or whatever you accuse them of. You've seen them; they're young maidens! Surely, the one with seven-coloured wings is a Holy Being? Their miracles and might?"

"Wings," scoffs the Septon. "More like gnarled twigs with shiny rocks than any sparrows I've ever seen. And how about the other girl? The one who wields a great flaming sword? Is she not like that Red Priest of Myr? A follower of the Red Demon? Isn't that right boy?"

"Y-"

"Septon Symon, are you calling the Messenger of the Maiden a fire demon? Don't you know that the words coming out of your mouth is blasphemy?" The High Septon have always known of Septon Symon's nature. That stubbornness and foolhardiness of his are acceptable for the man always carries his position with such care and love. But this? This is too much. "You've blasphemed against the Maiden in the Sept of Baelor, Septon Symon. I implore you to choose your words carefully."

"I'm not the one that needs to be careful, High Septon. And neither am I the first to blaspheme in this Sept. Tell me, was it a week ago that your 'Messenger of the Maiden' planted a fruit tree in the middle of the Sept? No, it was a seed. A seed that grew into a fruiting tree in a matter of days."

The High Septon clenches the edge of his desk, teeth grinding at the accusations. "That... That was a miracle-"

"No it wasn't. Stop kidding yourself; it was sorcery, your Holiness. You've brought sorcery into the holiest place in the Realm and you're expecting me to stay quiet!? And that damn tree. If that tree had been weirwood, I would've seen some sense in it but NO. It's just a random fruit tree! Peach!"

"S-Symon, calm-"

"And what? Do nothing? Sit back all day praying while a couple of demons lodge in our Sept? Do you remember how many holy brothers and sisters we lost when they arrived? And the terror they brought us! You said yourself, High Septon. A wolf in sheepskin."

"I -B, uh." The words can't come out of his mouth. _It can't be! It must not be! The Messengers being demons... I-_ "Guards! Guards!" he shouts, ringing a bell on his table. All manner of holy brothers, having come from all over the Realm for the miracle of lights, enter the room with swords and spears in hand. "Detain them! They've blasphemed against our Holy Messengers!"

But before they could move, Septon Symon draws his sword and holds the High Septon by the neck. The point so close to his eyes that his eyelash is trimmed by the blade. "Make any movements and the High Septon's head will roll! Back the fuck off!"

He tries to fight against the hold, but the Septon has an iron grip. The blade cuts his face, causing him to bleed. His legs tremble, as if wanting to relief himself in front of the Faith's followers. "High Septon," Symon speaks. "I'm asking you once again to get rid of those demons. Do that, then all of us will come out unharmed. If not," the blade presses against him, "you will not see the end of it."

As faithful and pious to the Seven he might be, the High Septon still fears the embrace of the Stranger. He doesn't want to die here, surrounded by holy brothers with a sword to his face. None of it. _Please, oh Father or the Maiden, please!_ "S-Symon," the High Septon gulps, "if you kill me, I will become a-a martyr. Many will rally under my death and the Faith will still recognise the Messengers. T-They will bring you to justice." He's not sure if the threat is enough. He knows that Symon is a hard man to push, but he has to try anything and everything if he wants to survive.

To his relief, the sword is lowered from his face. The High Septon sighs. _Has... Has my call been answered?_ "Let me go now Symon, and I will assure you that none shall come to harm." The High Septon turns his head and sees-

"You're all a lost cause."

Symon throws the High Septon down, the man's fat body crashing on the marble floor. His crystal crown breaks upon the foot of the holy brothers. With the holy brothers helping him up, he sees the face of Symon, or the man he once knew as Symon. He looks so... Different now. Nowhere is the familiar man who taught young septons and septas the ritual procedures. Nor is anywhere the man who likes to jest during luncheon. All that remains is fury and disappointment. A traitor to the Seven, a blasphemer. And yet...

"Septon Symon," says one of the more rugged holy brother, "drop the sword or we'll-"

"That's enough, o holy brothers," the High Septon interjects. Not a good decision, but it's one that has come from his heart. "Let him and the boy go."

The two men stare at each other for a moment before Symon spits on the High Septon's shoes. "Craven," he says as he drags the boy out of the Sept. Dazzled and scared, the High Septon wipes his brow and cheeks with a handkerchief, brushing away the blood.

One of the holy brothers approaches him, confused. "Is this wise, your Holiness? Letting them go?"

"Symon is no longer with us for he has blasphemed. His title as septon here has been stripped from this point on." The High Septon rights himself, grabbing his broken crystal crown. "Tell the City Watch to arrest him if he tries to leave the city. For now, we must prepare for our Dawn Hymns. Call up the Messengers; we need whatever blessings we can for the future."

The High Septon eyes his holy brothers as they go about their task. _Symon is not going to be the only one, will he?_


	2. The Promised Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some, the flames tells the future. For others, it brings about a change to the world. But for many, it is simply the death of things to come.

**Dothrakii Sea**

"Your grace, is there not any other way? Please, I beg of you!"

"Ser Jorah, as my most trusted member of the Queensguard, are you going to fail my first command?"

"...I'm sorry, your grace," Ser Jorah bows.

Drogo's pyre has been aflame since the burning star took to the sky. Inside, his body and that of the horse and the sorceress are nothing more than black cinders now. And Jorah can only watch helplessly as his Queen Daenerys Targaryen, last of her line, casts herself into the fire. _The last of the Targaryens,_ he thinks bitterly. _A little girl dying in the flames of her husband's corpse. So far away from her homeland, all for a prophecy that never came._

A final report is needed. To the Spider he will tell that her death is not through his blade nor an assassin's poison, but grief. Grief for what she had lost. _How happy Robert must be then, with all the Targaryens dead. And he'll then grant me back my title and land, back to Bear Island. How joyful._

_..._

He pities the girl. It was not her fault that her father wanted to burn down King's Landing, and it was her brother that caused the Rebellion. She didn't even carry the signature madness of the Targaryen like her brother Viserys. She was just that: a little girl, trapped within the horse lords' domain. None of it are her fault; if anything, it's Jorah's for being unable to prevent it all from happening. But he can't turn back time. Mirri Maz Duur still kills her child and Drogo remains dead.

He shakes his head. _No, there is no need to reminisce now, Jorah. She's dead. You can go home now._ Though bearing conflicting feelings, what's done is done. She is burning in the pyre. He recites a few prayers for the Old Gods and the New, hoping for them all to judge her soul fairly.

The camp is quiet now with most people mourning within their tents. Drogo's khalasar is no more, having split into two after his fall from his horse. All that's left are her three loyal bloodriders, now part of her Queensguard, and the freed slaves in her name. _Slaves... To think that her Grace would be kinder to them than I ever was to poachers._

And now, his mission is to leave for Westeros and claim his ill-gotten reward. But that's a problem: they're in the middle of the Dothrakii Sea, deep within the centre of Essos. They're probably closer to the legendary kingdom of Yi-Ti than Westeros, a fact that he does not take kindly towards. _With most of the supplies been raided by the damn new khalasars, it'll be hard. There might be good meat with the horses, but I don't know how her bloodriders would react. Or perhaps I could lie to them about scouting for water and escape..._

He sighs and looks up at the night sky. The glowing streak, or the burning star as the Dothrakii have called it. An ill omen as it was its appearance that spelt Daenerys' death. And perhaps an arrow pointing his way to leave; there's nothing more in this land.

He enters his tent and begins packing all the needed supplies. Wineskins full of water, armour, swords, and some dried meat he found beneath some boxes. Their quality are questionable. _Maps... I will need maps, perhaps one with images of stars as well. Gold as well. Maybe there's some back in Daenerys' tent?_ The idea of pilfering the recently deceased girl's belongings hangs heavy above him. However, there's no use in crying now.

He heads to her tent, making sure that no one is around to see him. Taking a deep breath, he enters and-

"Ah, excuse me. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I am?"

-Stops. Standing atop some wolf-skin rugs is a woman. A strange woman for she is quite colourful in appearance. Her blonde hair is styled into the shape of wolf ears with a strange purple object pressed against her ears. Wearing a vibrant purple, red, and gold cape, she exudes a feeling of royalty. At least, someone who could afford the fine silks she wears. A sword is affixed to her hip, its hilt decorated in gold. The bangles on her arm are also made out of gold. She smiles at him, holding a piece of wood with strange writings to her mouth.

He does not recognise her; not the Dothrakiis, nor the freed slaves. He grips the hilt of his sword. "What are you doing here, woman? The Queen is dead."

"I'm sorry, the queen?" she tilts her head.

 _Does she not know about her?_ "The Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her line. She died not long ago, threw herself into the burning pyre outside."

"...Ah, I see. Forgive me for my lack of knowledge. I give you my condolences, Ser Jorah," she bows at him. He's confused now. Who is this woman? Why is she asking where they are? Is she one of the freed slaves? And who gave her those clothes? It didn't seem to be present in Daenerys' available attires, so it must have clearly come from elsewhere.

"State your name and motives," he draws his sword and points it at her. "As a knight of the Queensguard, I demand an answer."

"Knight? Wow, you mean like one of those Western-"

"Name and motives, woman! Or I'll cut you down for pilfering her late Grace's belongings."

"Woah, easy there," she pushes down the sword point with her stick. "I think we've stepped off on the wrong foot. Let me properly introduce myself. Ahem," she twirls with her cape, flourishing it like a mummer. "My name," she proclaims, "is Toyosatomimi no Miko, the almighty Taoist Hermit Prince! You may kneel in my presence, Ser Jorah Mormont, but it is not required."

...None of that titles are recognisable to him. _Taoist, hermit..._ "Prince, you say? You don't look like a prince. Aren't you a woman?"

"Oh, Ser Jorah Mormont, Prince is simply the title I acquire and prefer," she smiles with an arm tucked inside her cape. "Others are more fitting for my status: Saint, God, and many other divine titles. But to be humble towards you, you may call me Prince Miko."

 _Another madwomen._ The last time he entertained the whims of one, Daenerys lost her unborn child. No need to repeat the same mistake, even with the queen dead. "I don't trust you, especially what happened with the Queen. Get out of the tent."

"Well now, I've answered your question. It's only fair that you answer mine, is it not? Where am-"

"Dothrakii Sea. Move it."

"That... Does not explain much, Ser Jorah," she frowns, ignoring the man's vicious glare. "Where is thi-"

"I've had enough with your little games, woman." He steps closer, the events of the past few weeks irritated him greatly. Whoever she is, she saw him searching for something within the tent. It'll only become trouble later on. "Step outside. I'll deal with you later"

"How about we deal now, Ser Jorah?" She walks deeper into the tent before placing her foot on top of a chest. He recognises it as the one that stores all the maps purchased by Daenerys. "You explain to me in detail where I am and I'll let you have these maps."

 _How did she figure out what I was doing? Wait... Did I even tell her my name?_ If he tries to run now, he's going to be stopped by her informing the others. It's the same if he tries to kill her here. And so, he relents and sheathes his sword. "This place. We are now in a region at the centre of Essos known as the Dothrakii Sea, realm of the Dothrakii horse lords. This continent is East of Westeros, the westernmost continent of the known world. Are... Any of this familiar to you?"

"No, it does not," she sighs. "However, I have heard tales of horse lords from where I came from, but they were not called Dothrakiis. Hmm..." After pondering for a few moments, she kicks the chest towards Jorah. "Alright then, a deal is a deal. You can have those maps."

"Thank you." Still suspicious of this intruder, he opens the chest while keeping an eye on her. Sure enough, the maps within contains a few star charts visible from Essos. He knows a bit or two about reading these maps. Pilfering it, he notices that the woman is watching him closely, her face half-covered by her cape. _I still have to take care of her. Will bribing her be enough?_

Stuffing the maps into his bag, he heads to the table adorned with the late Queen's jewels and gold. But before reaching it, the woman stops him in his tracks. "How shameful is it, Ser Jorah, to plunder the belongings of the one you're sworn to protect? As royalty myself, I pity your queen if you are the most loyal of her followers."

"The Queen is dead," Jorah croaks, sadness stabbing into his heart. "I have no place in Essos. No, I must return to Westeros."

"Are you sure of that? Your queen's death?"

"What? She's burning in that damn fire with her husband and a sorceress. I offered her a chance for us to travel further East but she refuses. If she's not dead before then she's already long dead by now."

"...I wouldn't be so sure, Ser Jorah Mormont. Come." The woman grabs him by the collar of his clothes and drags him out of the tent. He's taken aback by her sudden strength but refrains from striking her; if indulging this woman's whims will let him free, he'll gladly do so. A few bloodriders watch them with suspicion as they walk towards the pyre.

 _It'll be hard getting away from them. They're far more capable than me with a horse._ He can see Daenerys in there, a dark silhouette wreathed in light and flames. He turns his head away, not wanting to imagine the horrifying pain the girl has gone through. "If all you want is for me to see her body, Lady Miko, then I'm afraid I've seen too much already."

"It is _Prince_ Miko, Ser Jorah. And she's still alive."

"The sun has set since she's entered the pyre. There's nothing left of her but-"

To his shock, the woman shoves her hands into the burning flames. But her clothes do not burn and neither does her skin. Instead, she grabs that dark silhouette and pulls it out of the fire. Seeing the dark shape, he wants to strike at her for desecrating Daenerys' corpse. But then it moved. The blackened skin is nothing more than ash and soot. The Queen, she still lives.

Clutching her in his arms, he calls for his bloodriders to come and bring the clothes and water. He looks at her unconscious face; though her hair is burnt off, there's not a blemish upon her skin. Alive. He holds her close, tears pouring out his eyes in choked sobs. His Queen, she still lives. And he will continue serving her 'til the day he dies. Tears of sadness or joy, he does not know.

The strange woman wraps the naked Daenerys with her cape. In the heat of the flames, the golden serpents embroidered on it swirls and swims in the sea of purple. The bloodriders come bearing supplies. Upon seeing her, they let out curses and praises, no doubt from the miracle they've just witnessed. _Is it a miracle? Weren't the tales of the Targaryens say that they're immune to fire?_

"...Lady Miko, thanks for-" he pauses. The woman is laughing madly, crouching down with half of her torso in the flames. _Madwoman!_ But as he stands to pull her out, he hears a loud shrill. Then another. And another.

She stands, grinning towards Jorah. Entwined around her soot-covered neck and arms are three winged creatures, long necks and tails holding on to her. Though he never saw one alive, he knows what they are.

"Dragons..."

" _Prince_ Miko," the woman groans as the creatures slither around her. "How hard is that to remember?"

**Dragonstone**

The flames burn bright today. And with the red comet, it glows even brighter.

 _Dragonbreath,_ Stannis recalls what the Red Priestess had called it. _A sign of a brighter future by R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A future that burns bright for all of us._

The raven from King's Landing was a dark one. His brother wounded from a hunt, no doubt a fault in his indulgent drinking habits. But Stannis knows better. He knows the involvements of Jon Arryn and Robert's bastards. That's why he refuses the summons of the new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, to return to the Small Council. He has an army to build, and that viper's nest is not the best place to conduct it.

Here, at Dragonstone, he can ruminate and stew within his own thoughts. _When Robert dies, I shall ascend the throne. Not Cersei, and definitely not her accursed incest bastards._ His death will not bring joy to Stannis' heart, but neither will it bring sadness. Only acceptance, for it was already foretold by Melisandre that a dark raven shall bear the news of the King's death. How it was all planned by those damned Lannisters yearning for their gold. _I'll have their heads soon enough._

He watches with his family the Red Priestess' dance in front of the pyre, swaying and stirring along with each lick of flame. At its centre, statues of the Seven are burning to cinders, signalling Dragonstone's shift towards the worship of R'hllor. It was all helped by his wife, Sylese, who converted all remaining disbelievers on the island. But Stannis himself is still unsure of his faith to R'hllor, though he holds no respect towards the Seven either. No, he sees this as an opportunity to gain the shadowbinder's help. If the prophecies are coming true for him, then there's nothing he should protest.

The dance stops in a flurry of green and blue flames, much to the amazement of his daughter and his men. Stannis stays cold, for he knows what will come next. He leaves his seat and heads towards the burning pyre, the heat forming sweat on his brow. By the flames, Melisandre seems to shine as bright as the red comet. The ruby at her heart glows and throbs like a heartbeat, her warmth nearly overpowering that of the flames. _Sorcery or divinity, it does not matter. I'll see its use._ "What do you see within those flames, Melisandre?"

With her eyes focused on the embers, her lips parts to give him the prophecies. "When the star bleeds in the night sky will Azor Ahai be reborn. To fight back the Great Other and his throng of darkness and suffering, the warrior shall wield Lightbringer and slay the one who shall not be named." Finishing the proclamations, she gives way for Stannis to walk towards a large, burning statue of the Mother. A longsword is embedded in its heart. Grabbing the searing hilt, he grits his teeth and pulls the glowing longsword out of the pyre. Upon kissing the cold sea winds, the sword is set aflame.

_Lightbringer._

"The Warrior of Light! The Son of Fire!" All kneel before Stannis, the future King of Westeros. Reverence, respect, fear, worship. All of it is for him. A swing of the sword leaves a blazing trail in the air, much to the cheers and celebration of his men. He can feel himself smile. For once in his life, they truly respect and fear him.

"Soon," he addresses his men, "the Iron Throne shall have its rightful ruler. One who will bring order and peace to the Realm, who will lead you all against the forces of darkness. My men!" he shouts. "In the name of R'hllor, I-"

The pyre behind him bursts into a great pillar of fire, cutting short his speech. Reaching even higher than the walls of Dragonstone, the heat and winds nearly topples him over. Shielding his eyes from the blinding light, he sees Melisandre, standing next to the flames. Even in this terrifying hot gale the Red Priestess does not move, instead looking enraptured at something within.

Stannis is never one to see divination and prophecies in the flames; it has always been the task of the Red Priestess. And yet- _Is someone there!?_ He sees a faint shape forming itself within the blaze, pulling in the glowing embers of the pyre. He could barely see the long hair of the figure when the fire explodes.

His ears burst and brightness envelopes him as he feels himself falling through the air. Landing with a crash on the sandy banks of Dragonstone, the sword is thrown from his hands. Pain. His lungs burn, his face burns, his arm stabbing into itself. Rising from the black sand, he sees the chaos before him. All his soldiers are running in panic. Some unlucky ones are no more than black husks on the shores, while buildings and trees are consumed by a blaze. Like a dragon has descended upon them.

 _My men... My-_ "Selyse! SHIREEN!!" Stannis screams, struggling to get onto his feet. He ignores his pains and the throbbing of his leg; all that matters are his wife and daughter. Hobbling his way towards the pyre, he sees the canopy they had been in burning bright. His heart sinks but he continues on, screaming their name. As he's about to plunge into it, soldiers tackle him and hold him back. "Release! Release me I said!"

His soldiers shouts something back at him, though he can't hear anything besides the ringing of his ears. He struggles in their grasp, but slowly feels himself losing strength. A pair of hands drag him away from the burning canopy, and he can only watch helplessly as the men try to put out the flames.

Stannis sees the man's left hand is missing a few knuckles. "Davos," he groans. "Unhand me. Let me see them."

But the Onion Knight does not yield. Instead, he lies Stannis down on a flat rock outcropping, covering the crippled man's torso with a blanket. Davos looks pained as he speaks to Stannis, but he can't hear a word. He grabs his liege lord's hand, as if assuring him, and joins the others to put out the flames.

He looks over to the direction of the pyre, and sees that it's no longer aflame. Black smoke blankets the sky, threatening to swallow the stars. He can't move his legs. Raising his left arm, all he sees is a black, twisted mess. His face. He can't feel anything.

But Stannis feels fury. Fury that only a Stormlord can bear. His anger grows, not only towards Melisandre but to the fire god R'hllor himself. His faith wavers. What kind of god kill his men and family, devout followers of his faith? Had he been worshipping a false god? A red demon as the Faith stated? Was all this death and destruction a punishment from the Seven?

Contemplating his fate, he sees the figure of Melisandre approaching him. The woman is unhurt and unblemished; not even her red hair is burnt from the flames. And her face... _That damn smiling face._ Where once her beautiful visage helps to calm his mind to the faith of the flames, now a fire burns in his heart. "Melisandre!" he rasps, coughing up blood. "You damned red witch! What did you do to my men!?"

She keeps her calm and smiles at him. Though he can't hear her speech, he sees the movement of her lips. Though vague, he can string together some of it. "Sacrifice? Sacrifice!? Is my family nothing but a sacrifice to your damned demon!?"

He tries to grasp her neck, choke out that damned fire inside her. But his body feels weak. Tiredness lies heavy against his body, and he falls into a stupor. It would be days before he opens his eyes again.


	3. Long Live the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As King's Landing threatens to fall into an uncertain chaos, one knight will try his best to prevent its fall.

**King's Landing**

The King's is dying. No, he's already in the Stranger's embrace.

The hunt. That was when it had all gone wrong. Robert's drunkenness, Lancel's wines, the boar, the spear... _No, not all the blame lie on that. I was there,_ Ser Barristan Selmy regrets. _I could have stopped him from drinking, could have shoved him out of the way from that beast. If I was just quicker or saw that thing sooner, then all of this could have been avoided._

The large man lying on the bed is merely a shadow of his former self. Gone are his laughter, his fury, and even his passions for the serving girls... Leaving only a husk barely able to speak. The King's skin is as pale as the bedsheets, while his fat does not hide his withering figure. When Grand Maester Pycelle patched him up, he had assured them all that the King will be just fine. "Up and hunting again in a matter of weeks," was the exact quote. But it only has been three days since the hunt; no signs of improvement.

Throughout the Red Keep, whether it be the guards, the cooks, or the servants, all are expecting his death anytime soon. None share Pycelle's bright outlook on life. The rumours of his imminent death have spread beyond the Red Keep, and many are prepared for mourning. The Sept of Baelor has been conducting prayers with their strange lights, while Queen Cersei have took it upon herself to prepare his funeral arrangements. It's not odd to sometimes see her wandering the halls of the Red Keep in a black dress, though he has yet to see her cry about her King.

But what will it be for Ser Barristan? Another dead king under his post. Aerys the Mad King, and Jaehaerys before that. And each time, he can't do anything to stop it; how is the one now any different? _And with the state of the Realm, I fear that I will attend the fourth,_ he thinks bitterly. _With four kings, am I not a more fitting Kingslayer than that oathbreaker?_

Sitting to Robert's side is Lord Eddard Stark, the current Hand after the tragic passing of Jon Arryn. He finishes writing the King's last wills and testament, stamping it with the royal seal. The man's not much older than the Kingslayer, yet he looks far more aged with greying hair and a wilted face. No doubt the events of the past week have crushed his spirits. Not just Robert, but his clash with the Kingslayer lead to the Lannisters marching into the Riverlands, Catelyn Stark's homeland. Barristan can still see the limp that the errant Kingsguard left him. _I'll need to sanction the boy for such actions, but he's with Lord Tywin now. He doesn't even hold loyalty to the crown, oh how the Order have fallen with each king..._

But Barristan doesn't want to stay still. Surely, something must be done. Whether that be stopping the Kingslayer's foolish campaign, or keep the King alive until all of this is over. _When he passes on, all of the Seven hells will break loose in this realm. The Prince... Even if he is the rightful heir, I have a bad feeling about it. Lord Stannis could lay claim to the throne. And what then? War? Rebellion? How many more will die because of one King's death?_ "Lord Stark, may I speak with you?"

Eddard raises his head, his tired eyes opening wide upon seeing Barristan. "Ah, yes yes... Sorry, Ser Barristan, I've forgotten that you're here. What is the matter?"

"Lord Stark, the King is dying. I doubt Grand Maester Pycelle's assurance that he'll be well."

"Yes, I suspect as much," Eddard sighs, holding the King's hand. "There's not much we can do, however. Pycelle, however old and frail he is, is a healer far more skilled than all of us. Even then his skills are lacking. There's nothing left to do but wait."

"Lord Stark, forgive me but I must object to giving up. Even the King will admonish such thinking. No, I'm suggesting we search for another healer."

"Healer?" Eddard raises an eyebrow. "There's someone better than Pycelle? He's the Grand Maester!"

"He may be a Grand Maester, but he's not solely focus on the art of healing. I've heard of a travelling healer staying in Flea Bottom, healing the poor and crippled for no charge. Even merchants from across the Narrow Sea have visited him. We still have time to summon them here, my lord. The sun is still up." Rumours of such a skilled man travels fast. For Barristan, this person might be their only hope of recovering the King. But there is a problem.

"Have you met this healer, Ser Barristan?"

"I have not, my lord."

"Then I don't trust him with Robert," Eddard declines. "We don't know what that man might do, perhaps even going so far as to pilfer this room or, gods forbid," his voice lowers, "kill Robert."

"Death will alleviate King Robert's suffering, my lord," Ser Barristan answers, shocking the Warden of the North. "It is risky, yes, but we don't have any other choice. And as his vassals, it is our duty to keep him alive unless everything unravels." What actual unravelling Ser Barristan doesn't exactly know, but he didn't get this far as a Kingsguard by being absent-minded. He paid enough attention in the courtly procedures to understand the gravity of the Realm's situation. His thoughts about the Spider does not quell his fears.

"Ser Barristan, what if they ask for gold? An exorbitant amount of gold? You know that the Iron Throne is millions of dragons in debt."

"In my honest opinion, Lord Stark, the gold price is easier to pay than the iron price. And I fear that with the Lannisters heading up North, we will be forced to accept the latter."

The fear for the Lannisters strikes worry at Eddard's heart, wiping away any doubts of gold and cost. He glances at Robert's sleeping form, the King's breaths shallow and wheezing. With that, Eddard relents. "Alright. As Hand, I order you to find this healer and bring him here. We can discuss the prices later; Robert's life is far more important."

"At once, L-"

"However," Eddard adds, his voice turns low to not be overheard, "keep this order a secret between you and I. There's some foul play afoot with the Lannisters, perhaps even Lord Littlefinger and the Spider."

Ser Barristan bows and leaves the royal quarters. As there is no active Kingsguard at the door, he heads to the White Sword Tower and finds Ser Balon Swann, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. The rugged man is a capable knight for sure, but Ser Barristan is not convinced that he is fitting as a Kingsguard. In fact, he doesn't find any of the other Sworn Brothers fit as the King's protector. They're either too unskilled, too corrupt, or both. Two in particular, the Kingslayer and Ser Boros Blount, have their hands in the pockets of the Lannisters. He's not sure if he can even trust Ser Balon, but with the other options, he'd rather have a simple knight than a traitorous one. Ser Barristan hold his sigh as he greets him. "Ser Balon."

"Evening, Lord Commander," Ser Balon stands and bows. "Exchanging guard duty?"

"Yes, even a Lord Commander needs a break after all," Ser Barristan chuckles as he takes off his plate armour.

"I see. May I ask, how is the King? You've been by his side longer than any of us."

"He's recovering," Ser Barristan lies. "He was awake an hour ago, but he needs his rest so please try not to disturb him."

"Of course, Lord Commander," Ser Balon replies as he leaves for his duty.

_Obedient, strong, but much too simple for my liking. But perhaps that's what I need in these trying times..._

Barristan dons a much more conspicuous clothing of brown tunic and leather, making him look closer to a begging brother than a Kingsguard. He puts on a large cloak, enough to hide the sewn-in pockets of armour and his arming sword. He descends to the lowest floor of the tower and rubs the walls for indentations. Finding the correct divot, he presses into it and pulls out the wall, revealing a secret passage. He learnt of these passages many years ago with the help of the Spider who often wanders around these forgotten halls. He's not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed that his fellow Sworn Brothers don't know of such passages.

Walking into the dark stony hall, he travels for a while before exiting at the Hook, west of the Red Keep. A murder of crows and ravens on a nearby tree greet him. He wonders if some of them are the ravens that escaped from the Red Keep's rookery. The smell and clamour of the city is far more welcoming than the eerie stillness of the Red Keep. Barristan looks up to the sky and sees those strange lights piercing the clouds. He never liked those things, shimmering in the sky like a mirage. But the Faith is responsible for its appearance and many call it a blessing upon the Realm.

He can only wonder at such claims; he's not a pious man, but he had never heard of such things in his teachings before. _And if it is a blessing, why is the King dying? The Realm's sufferings did not end when the lights and the comet shined, rather it began there._ Dark thoughts threaten to cloud his mind but he shakes them off. He continues walking past the praying populace and into Flea Bottom, the slums of King's Landing.

As he passes by many stalls and pot-shops, he comes across multiple beggars and children with bandages and stitches on their body. _No doubt the work of the healer,_ Barristan thinks _._ He follows the trail towards a no-named wooden building, maybe an inn from the looks of it. At its front he can see many people lined up bearing various injuries: burns, crutches, pale complexions... What he finds most curious however is the fact that he spots a few Red Keep guards among them. _So that's how popular the healer is... No wonder merchants come and ask them for help._

But this means he can't enter through the front for risking his identity to the guards. Instead, he enters a nearby alley and go to the back of the building. He pushes on the door; it's unlocked.

Barristan steps into the room, which is quite bright due to the numerous candles strewn about. He closes the door behind him, making sure to lock it. He looks around; the room looks to be a kitchen, though there is no smell of food being prepared here. Instead, the air smells rich and sharp like the sea. Herbs and mushrooms are scattered on the counter along with a set of mortars and pestle. Some of the bottles with green and purple liquids exude a disturbing glow; he avoids looking at it for too long. _Does this healer use sorcery? Like a hedge wizard?_

He exits the kitchen and enters the main area of the building. Like the kitchen, this room is also full of candles but much more furnished. A bed with no sheets lie in the middle of the room. Treading on the wooden floor quietly, he spots a large longbow leaning against a table. Curious, Barristan picks it up but finds it surprisingly heavy for a wooden weapon. _It's well balanced and the wood has quite the fine grain on it, but I can't identify what tree is it from. Ironwood? Elm? Looks far too dark to be oak or ash._ The Kingsguard trace his finger along the bowstave, noting the various cuts and scratches. _Looks like there's been some use to it. The string..._ Barristan tries to pull the string back, but for the life of him he couldn't. The thing is as stiff as metal, but it's clear that it's some sort of string. _Or is this only a ceremonial weapon of sorts? Some nobility comiss-_

"It's rude to play around with someone's weapon without permission," a voice comes from behind him.

Barristan turns around and finds himself face-to-face with a tall woman. Well, not really face-to-face since her face is covered by some cloth and some strange crystal visor. "Forgive me for my curiosity, Lady Healer," Barristan bows, putting the weapon back on the table.

"What do you want?" the woman asks, crossing her arm. He notes the brown gloves and white cloak she's wearing, both of which are covered with speckles of blood. She looks more like a silent sister than any healer he had seen before. "You didn't line up outside, which means that it's something urgent or something annoying," she says with a hint of disdain.

"None of the sort Lady Healer. My name is Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and in service of the Iron Throne."

"Ah, your king."

"Yes, my King, Robert Baratheon, is an urgent need of-"

"No."

"I-Buh, I beg your pardon?" Her answer catches him off-guard.

"I know what you're asking and the answer is no. Please leave," she replies sternly before heading towards one of the tables covered in parchment and begins jotting things down.

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, Lady Healer," Barristan approaches her table, though he stops the moment she looks at him. Even from behind those strange visors, he can feel her glare. "It is the King we're talking about. The King of Westeros."

"Yes, the very same king that hunted for boars drunk and got his price." A portly woman descends from upstairs and hands the healer a cup of some hot drinks. She offers one to Barristan as well. "Thank you dear."

"I don't tolerate insults to his Grace, Lady Healer. I'm here not by the Lord Hand's request but by an order," Barristan pushes, but the woman does not budge.

"Why didn't you line up outside?"

"I- It's the King, Lady Healer. He's in a dire condition."

"And so are some of the people outside. Tell me, why should I give him priority of such a treatment and not the ones who waited patiently for my service?"

Barristan knows the answer to that, but it's such a crass and bitter statement that he holds it back. "If the King is healed, then he can instill order to the Realm. And that means less people getting hurt and sick, Lady Healer."

"Less?" she scoffs. "I was here before he had gotten into his little accident and saw no worsening nor improvements in Flea Bottom when he fell ill. In fact, why should I trust such a stupid, uncivilised man to 'heal' this sick realm of yours?" She finishes her drink before continuing her rant, the server staying quiet to the side. "It was your king who had gotten drunk on a dangerous hunt. Such a large man need at least five to six wineskins to raise his BAC to dangerous levels, and he drank eight if the rumours are true. He's a human, not an oni. And now his followers don't even have the decency to line up outside and wait their turn; they're even worse than a beggar! I may be able to cure his wounds, Barristan Selmy, but I'm unable to cure his stupidity. Is that clear?"

...Ser Barristan understands some of the things she just said. Though most of them add up to insults towards the King, which is not unfounded, those last sentences of hers brings some clarity to his mind. "So you can heal him."

"Are you deaf!? I don't _want_ to heal him. Lya, please get him out of here. I'll get the next patient."

"Yes Lady Eirin," the woman answers before leading Barristan back to the kitchen by his arm. Once inside though, he pries himself from his grip and grabs Lya by her shoulders, scaring her.

"Miss Lya was it?"

"Y-Yes, Ser B-Barristan," she stutters.

"Please, are you able to convince Lady Eirin to help me? You know her well, surely!"

"I don't, Ser Barristan," she confesses. "I'm the owner of this building, this inn, before she started to bring all those street urchins and beggars in. And she had the gall to tell me that I was being disruptive on her practice. Now I'm forced to help her! I don't even understand half of the things she rambles on about, let alone those healing sorceries of hers."

"So you're not her assistant? Why not, well, kick her out?"

"Damn wench got a viper's tongue," Lya sneers. "Can't say a word against her without getting a good lashing. Might as well play along for the time being. At least when merchants come by, they leave a few coins."

_That is interesting. So this healer works pretty much on her own, unwanted in someone else's home. Then perhaps..._ "Lady Lya, could you please bring me back to her? I have a plan to convince her out of your home."

"You will?" her eyes shine bright at Ser Barristan, hopeful.

"Yes, you have my promise as a Kingsguard," he smiles. Barristan knows that the best play he could do is to display his kindness. Or more accurately, the King's kindness and gratitude. Unlike his sworn brothers, he can't do much with the display of live steel; not only is it loathsome for him to do so, but he fears what her retaliation might be. She carries herself like an experienced knight, and it's best not to anger the one who heals you. He needs to approach this carefully.

The two enter the main room again where the healer is treating a child with a baby in her hands. She sighs upon seeing their faces. "Not you too, Lya..."

"Lady Eirin, I offer you a proposition. It will be beneficial for all of us. First, I ask for you to heal the King of his ailm-"

"No."

"I'm not finished," Barristan raises his finger. "I'll say it again. You'll help to heal his Grace then we can work out a deal with you. From what I've heard, you've taken up an unlawful residency in Lady Lya's home and turned it into your clinic. Though it is a very honourable act, Lady Lya here has been given the short end of the arrangement. That's why I am making this proposal."

The healer continues to treat the child, seemingly uncaring of Barristan's speech. But he continues. "King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, will be very grateful for the healing you've done to him. And with that, you may request anything within reason from him. Let's say, your own building to treat the ill? Or skilled healers and maesters as your assistants? Is that not much better than having poor Lady Lya here as your helper? I'm not trying to speak ill of her, but don't you find her skills to be lacking?"

Eirin turns to them, her fingers rapping hard against the table. Lya gulps, fearing the words that may come out of the healer's mouth. The child at the table stay silent, anxious. "Lya."

"Y-Yes Lady Eirin!"

"Take a break."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"You haven't had lunch right? It's already sunset, so you still have time to make supper for yourself. Go eat."

"Oh, thank you so much, Lady Eirin!" Lya exclaims before running back upstairs. Barristan can only wonder what kind of trials and tribulations did the healer impart on that poor lady.

"Barristan."

"Yes, Lady Eirin?"

"Prepare clean bandages for this girl here. After that, wash my tools with hot water and vinegar before the next patient comes in. Now."

"I have no experience in-"

"And neither did Lya, but she did well enough. Surely you must be even better, right?" the healer cocks her head. "The faster I treat these patients, the faster I'm going to be with your king. So? Can you do it?"

"Of course, Lady Eirin!"

**King's Landing**

"Barristan, fill up this flask."

"Right away!"

"Barristan, hold down his leg."

"Yes!"

"Barristan, wipe away the blood."

"At once!"

Barristan moves to and fro, from task to task. They're like a river: unending and in constant supply from the healer. It's hard for him to breathe with the cloth covering his mouth, but Eirin insists that he wears it lest she'll disregard his plea for help. And so he complies to her many orders and demands, acting both as a helper and a cleaner for the healer.

He doesn't know how long has he been here. The pristine brown leathers he'd been wearing is now splattered with blood; he should have heeded the healer's advice to wear a spare apron the inn-owner has. He didn't want to ruin the woman's clean clothes. During all that time, Barristan wrote, cut, and held things down for the healer. As the Lord Commander, he's used to such extraneous activities. Though with the face covering and old age, his exhaustion is catching up to him.

As he wipes away the blood from the table, he watches the healer do her healing arts. She moves the needle and string with such precision that it's more reminiscent with a skilled needleworker than a maester. In a matter of seconds, the cut on the man's leg is stitched up. But what surprises him the most is the sorcery she displays in the open. Whenever she makes an incision, the cut on the body carries a slight bluish glow. Sometimes it's red, sometimes it's green; he doesn't know the difference between each one. Even now with the man's leg stitched up, her finger glows blue as she rubs the cut spot. The skin heals over it like it was nothing. _A hedge wizard... No, more than that. Where did she come fr-_

"Barristan, transcribe the following instructions."

"Alright," he replies, running over to the quill and parchment.

"Mister Knoll, please consume these pills two times a day, preferably before eating breakfast and dinner, for two weeks. Do not put much strain on your right leg. Though that cane of yours is sufficient, I'll recommend you to get a crutch fitted with Mister Colton at the Street of Steel. Come back here tomorrow and I'll give you the papers to have it fitted; I'll be unable to pick it up myself due to my work here."

"It's free?" asks the balding man.

"I have an agreement with Mister Colton's son," answers Lady Eirin. "Barristan."

The tired Lord Commander hands the man the set of instructions. "Please read them over when you get home, Mister Knoll. I bid you a good night and a safe travel."

"Thank you, Ser Barristan! My son has always been looking up to you, with all your knightliness and what not," Knoll chuckles, standing up from his chair. "A shame he couldn't be one, nor could his father."

"Surviving the ailment you have now is a worthy enough achievement to be proud of, Mister Knoll," Eirin assures him as she leads him to the front door. "Healing and surviving requires a strong will, something that you have in you."

"Really, Lady Eirin?"

"Of course! Just come back here tomorrow, okay?"

"Yes. Thank you Lady Eirin, for everything you've done here."

"It's my job," she replies with glee. She waves the man goodbye befor closing and locking the doors. "Barristan," her voice stern now, "wash my tools."

"At once!"

"Neat up the parchments."

"Of course!"

"Put seven sheets into my case."

"Yes!"

"Place my tools and seven red bottles into my case."

"Right away."

"Good. Let us head out."

"Ye- Pardon?"

"Lya, make sure the doors are locked, okay?" she shouts to the person upstairs. They answer with a muffled confirmation.

"Are we-"

"Yes, go prepare yourself," Eirin replies as she takes off her blood-stained white cloak and head-wear. He's taken aback by how long her platinum hair is; even braided, it still reaches past her ankles. However, her face catches his attention. There's some otherworldly aspect to her look. Perhaps it's her grey eyes or pale skin that reminds him of the previous dynasty, the Targaryens. She's strangely beautiful, yet soething about it sends shivers down his spine. She turns to him with a slight smile. "Well? Are you ready?"

"Oh, sorry Lady Eirin! Please give me a second."

"Take your time, it's your king after all."

Barristan tries his best to wipe away any blood and pus on his clothes; though he's not well versed in the art of healing, he knows enough to understand the importance of cleanliness. And with the King, that is of the utmost importance. After checking through all of his equipments, he's ready to go. "Let us head out."

And so, they leave the bright comforts of the inn and traverse into the dark streets of Flea Bottom. Since there are no lights shining from the Sept of Baelor, Barristan guesses that it's quite late in the night now. _By the Seven, I hope we're not too late._ As they pass by a few groups of guards and beggars, he notices that they're giving them odd looks and glances. That's when he realises that the healer is also carrying her longbow with her. "Lady Eirin, I think your weapon is giving us some unnecessary attention," Barristan says politely.

"You have your sword, I have my bow."

"I see... I take it that you're an experienced archer then? If it's not rude for me to ask, are you by any chance a warrior?"

"Not really," she answers as they enter a more crowded and lively street. The commonfolk part ways upon seeing the healer. "I'm far more skilled in medicine than fighting, though that doesn't mean that I have not spilt blood."

_Interesting, so what is her background then? Do women in her part of the world wield weapons as well? Or is it the healers who do such a thing? So much questions, so little time._ "I'm sorry if I've brought up bitter memories, Lady Eirin. It's just rare for me to see a women wield weapons in the open, especially in Westeros." He actually does have experience of women wielding weapons, but that only amounts to the occasional Wildlings he met during his time as a novice knight. This woman doesn't look to be from that sordid bunch.

"Where I come from, women are not as restricted in taking more... Masculine positions, shall we say. Where my home is, it's often women that fight, not the men. In fact, I trained some under me to take over my position after I'm gone. They've done great so far!"

_A culture whose commanders and soldiers are women... I'm not sure if I've ever heard of that._ "What an interesting place! I must pay it a visit in the future."

"I'm not sure if you would like it," the healer chuckles. "Though I can confidently say that it's much cleaner than whatever mess this city is."

"Even in Westeros, King's Landing is renowned for its smell. Now, we should be reaching our destination." They turn a corner and walk towards the hidden passageway that Barristan exited from. The climb feels far longer now due to his exhaustion, but the woman doesn't show any sign of tiredness. Barristan doesn't bother to change his clothes for it'll take far too long.

As they walk towards Maegor's Holdfast, he notices something odd. Throughout their whole trek, they didn't come across any servants nor guards. Not even at the entrance of the Holdfast. And so when he sees that the door to the royal quarters is wide open, he stops in his tracks.

All of his senses are firing at once. The quietness, the dim lights, and that faint smell of sick and viscera... The Kingsguard draws his sword whilst his companion readies her own bow. With a silent gesture, the two move forward quietly towards the doorway. He can see a faint red droplet on the stony floor. He makes sure to keep the healer behind him before calling out: "Whoever is in there, drop your sword and I may leave you alive!"

"Ser... Barristan..."

Barristan recognises Lord Stark's voice. He looks into the room with his sword at the ready and sees carnage. Furnitures and ornaments are strewn about, many of them broken or have been chopped to pieces. Blood paint the marble floor red. At the centre of the room he sees the unconscious form of his Sworn Brother, Ser Balon Swann. A dagger is sticking out of his side, his white cape and armour dyed in blood. At the foot of the King's bed is Lord Eddard Stark, heavily wounded and clutching a gaping cut at his stomach, his guts threaten to spill out.

Barristan rushes to his side, trying to get the man to a more correct position. Barristan dares not letting him stand for he has fear of causing even greater damage to the already wounded Stark. "Lord Hand! What- What in the Seven Hells happened here!?"

"Barristan, your man," Eddard wheezes out. "Attacked me and... Robert... He-"

"Please stay still, Lord Stark. The healer has come to help. Lady Eirin!" Barristan shouts and sees the healer already wearing her cloth and visors. "Please, Lady Eirin, help Lord Stark!"

"I have grave news for you, Barristan Selmy. I just examined the wounds on your king and he'll need most of my attention. I can only operate one at a time, so think carefully on who I should heal."

Barristan freezes in spot. His heart is pounding in his chest for the decision lies on him. _I-I'm the Kingsguard, so I must protect the King. But Lord Stark is wounded and looks to be in need even more so than Robert! What-_

"Ser Barristan..." Lord Stark coughs up some blood, "I... Order you to help... Robert..."

"But my Lord, your wounds-"

"That is a command, Ser Barristan..."

Ser Barristan looks into the dying Stark's eyes. Even so near to the Stranger, that cold gaze of him bores deep into the Kingsguard. _A stubborn man even to the very end..._ "I'll carry your orders, Lord Hand. It is my duty as the Kingsguard."

"...Good," Eddard Stark smiles.

"Lady Eirin," Ser Barristan stands up, addressing the healer who is now undressing the King and his bandages. "May I call over for more help? We'll need all the hands we can get for supplies and more."

Eirin hesitates for a second before approving it. "But be quick for I'm cutting into him soon."

Barristan nods and dashes out of the room, heading straight to the main halls of the Red Keep. But even with his confidence, he's unsure on who to actually call for help. He now knows that he can't trust his Sworn Brothers to not thrust a blade into his neck, nor any of the Lannister guards for he remembers the Lord Hand's warnings. The fact that the guards have stayed away from the Holdfast meant that they couldn't be trusted either. _So who should I call? Which servants!?_

Desperate, Barristan enters the cooking area of the Red Keep. Even this late into the evening, the kitchen is still full of servants and staff, most of which are eating their long-deserved dinner. "S-Seb Bawisten!" the head chef bows at him with a mouth full of bread. All eyes are staring at him. "W-What brings you-"

"I need a bucket of boiling water, clean rags, and sets of vinegars and salts that you have. Bring them all to the royal quarters. NOW."

"Y-Yes Ser," the chef gulps before sending all of the others scurrying for the supplies. "Is there any reason for-"

"I'll tell you later. And avoid any of the Red Keep or Lannister guards if you can. They'll only hinder you, is that clear?"

"Yes Ser."

Satisfied, Barristan runs back to the royal quarters, his breathing now ragged. Upon entering, he immediately covers his face with a cloth and begins helping the healer.

"Fetch me a red bottle and scalpel."

"Yes, Lady Eirin."

"Hold these parts still while I cut."

"Yes!"

"Wow, what a disgusting mess," the healer chuckles as she opens up the old wound. The smell of rot and pus assaults Barristan's nose, causing him to gag at the exposure. "Hold steady, Barristan. We don't want you to puke on the patient now, do we?"

"No."

"Good. Shit, this part here is gone... This one as well..." the healer whispers as she begins slicing off black and green flesh from Robert's body and dumping them on the carpeted floor. "But that's vital, so where am I going to-"

"Ser Barristan, I'm here with the- HOLY SEVEN HELLS!" the chef exclaims upon seeing the room, dropping the bucket of hot water and the requested spices. Luckily it lands the right way up, though some splashed onto the carpet. "What the- What the hells is-"

"You at the doorway, bring me the bucket and items," the healer orders, wiping away the sweat on her brow. "And Barristan, bring me a candle. It's too dark to see here."

Barristan pries off a red candle from the wall and holds it over the two of them, ignoring the heat from the melting wax. The chef, though still stunned and pale, move the bucket over to Eirin's feet before running out of the room. "He'll inform the guards, and they're going to be troublesome to deal with."

"Lock and block the door. Leave the candle."

Barristan complies and sticks the candle onto the bed-frame's whirling decorations. Closing the door and bringing down the beam, he realises that it will not be enough if the guards bring in a ram. So with great effort, he moves a nearby shelf and sofa to block the doorway. "Hopefully that'll hold," the Kingsguard pants.

"Barristan."

"Yes Lady Eirin."

"I need you to follow these instructions carefully. First, take out three small silver needles in my case. They have a piece of paper attached to them; hold it there and not on the metal."

"Yes!" Barristan takes them out of the healer's case. They look like a typical sewing needle, though far thinner than the ones he would see in Myrcella's quarters.

"Stick one into the King's stomach."

Barristan does so, still confused at what the items are used for. The piece of paper slowly changes its colour from white to green while the healer watches it intensely.

"Now stick it to the man on the floor and the man leaning on the bed."

As Barristan turns Balon Swann's body around, he sees that a large gash had been struck into the man's forehead. _Protecting the King with his life, Lord Stark has done more in his few months as a Hand than I ever did as a Kingsguard..._ Sticking the needle to the now dead Lord Stark, Barristan can't help but feel a pang of guilt. _If I had been quicker back at Flea Bottom, then all of this could have been-_

"Barristan, what's the colour for the man on the floor?"

"Blue, Lady Eirin. Sky blue."

"And the one leaning on the bed?"

"Green."

"Like the one on your king?"

Barristan looks closer at the needle sticking out of Lord Stark's neck. "No, it's darker. Or bluer, I'm not sure, but it's green."

"Tch, I'll have to make do then. Barristan, strip him of his clothes and lay him on the bed. I'll start operating on him."

"Lord Stark is dead-"

"I know, but this not for the Stark." Eirin points at the King. "The wounds your king has are not just from the hunt, but also some fresh cuts and stabs from whatever skirmish happened here. He's barely breathing and not moving even when I'm operating without anaesthetics, and that's a bad sign. If you want your king to survive, then I must take some parts from that dead man."

He looks at the woman as if she had grown another head. Gone is the assurance that she's simply a well-practised healer or hedge wizard; she's a maegi. "Y-You're suggesting necromancy!?"

"No, but if you don't help then I may nee-"

_*BANG BANG*_

The two look towards the doorway. They can hear the shuffling of feet and an array of voices from behind the blockade. With another thud, the whole thing shakes from the force of whatever is ramming the door. "Shit, the guards!"

"Hurry Barristan!"

The Kingsguard hesitates. He had heard of tales of maegis and warlocks from the land called Qarth, the ones who desecrate the dead and cause ungodly horrors on the world. If the woman here is such a person, then there would be a hidden cost somewhere. All talks of necromancy always had a hidden cost, but he doesn't know anything about magic. She's his only chance at Robert's survival.

_The third King..._

Steeling his resolve, Barristan draws his dagger and cuts apart the Lord Stark's clothes. He's already a failure of a Kingsguard anyway, but he's adamant to at least keep this one alive during his service. Even if that means dabbling into something very detestable.


	4. A Windy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion, having been freed from the clutches of the Vale, takes a perilous path down the mountains with his sellsword Bronn.

**Mountains of the Moon**

"Imp, if I have to lose another tooth at your expense, I'll throw you off the cliff myself."

"Wouldn't you be missing some Lannister gold then, Bronn?"

"...Ghh, there better be some gold dragons for this," the sellsword groans.

How long was he imprisoned in that accursed castle? A week? Two? He's not sure. He could see the blue sky in his cell, but he tries his best to pry his eyes away from it. The beckoning of the blue is far too appealing for him there. But looking up now to the sky, he sees a new object hanging there. Something he never thought of actually witnessing in his life. "Well would you look at that, Bronn. A comet."

"Comet? That bloody red thing in the sky?" Bronn points to the celestial object, its tail stretching over some of the mountain peaks.

"Yes, don't you know what a comet is?"

"Entertain me," the sellsword smiles, showing his gapped toth.

"Well, this is what I heard from Maester Creylen back at Casterly Rock, so take it with a grain of salt. The man is slowly losing his wits. A comet, he says, is something that only occurs every few hundred years or so. But they repeat their cycle over, and over, and over again. Apparently, that's how some of the First Men kept track of their times." Tyrion shifts in his saddle, the horse being too large and cumbersome for him. "The last time something like that happened was during the Mad King's reign, so I had reckoned that I'll be long dead before I saw one."

"But there it is."

"Yup, there it is. You know, they say it brings omens to those who see it. And with our luck, who knows of our future."

"Heh, as long as it has a nice hot bath and good food, I'm ready." Bronn goes ahead of Tyrion, whistling with the trot. It's still a long ways away from the Riverlands. Sure, the high road and the entirety of the Vale is full of beautiful mountains and nature, but that's all there is to it. Rocks, trees, and the occasional shadowcats. Wildlings if they are _really_ unlucky. Even after declaring him innocent, the little Lord of the Eyrie still intends to have him dead. _Wanted me to fly, that whelp. The day I'd do that is the day I sprout wings. Maybe then I'll become an actual imp_

"Do you believe in omens, Bronn?"

"It's shit. Do you?"

"Not really," Tyrion confesses. "Unlike my superstitious sister, I'd keep my head sharp at such notions. However, if it brings us comfort," he points at the comet, "I reckon that's Lannister red. Surely a sign of good luck and prosperity for us."

"Lannister red?" Bronn scoffs. "I've seen your colours. That looks more like a blood stain to me."

Their walk is settled again by silence. The sun hides behind a few clouds, and their surroundings are quite scarce in trees. Bronn groans, cracking his knuckles and back. "Gods, this trip down is longer than our way up. I hope something interesting will happen."

"I pray it'll keep being uninteresting," Tyrion retorts. "I don't think we can fight our way out of the mountain wildlings like last time."

"Then do something interesting," Bronn complains. "You're a dwarf, right? Can't dwarves do tricks?"

"If you want me to piss on your knee, I can do that."

"Mmm... Nah. These boots are brand new."

"Yeah, you got them from Jyck's dead corpse."

"Hey," Bronn chuckles, "a dead man doesn't need any boots."

"If his ghost has to walk down these roads, he'll need them," Tyrion jests. The only silver lining to their trip down the Vale's most treacherous path is that the Arryns gave them horses. Weak horse, but horses nonetheless. "By the Seven, they really are trying to kill us."

"You tell me, Imp. Speaking of killing," the sellsword turns to Tyrion, adamant to earn his entertainment, "you got many enemies, right? I mean, as a Lannister, you seem pretty hated."

"Hated? No no, we're well loved by everyone! That's why Lady Catelyn brought me here to see her sister."

"Of course you are," Bronn chuckles. "So, got any stories to tell? Might as well find some way to pass the time."

"Hmm... How about this? You tell me a story about your life as a sellsword, and I'll pay you with one of mine." It's a good opportunity to learn more about this companion of his, lest he'll find the sellsword's blade upon his throat. Besides, he too is starting to feel the onset of boredom.

"Ah, you're asking for a mummer's play?"

"Is that a deal?"

"Deal!" Bronn looks excited in telling the story. _He really_ is _bored._ "So, you know Chiggen? The other sellsword? We used to go way back when, close as brothers we were."

"Is that why you slit his throat?"

"Look, he was being a nuisance alright? Couldn't keep his mouth shut when he needs to. Anyway," he continues, glossing over his companion's death, "when was it? Three, four years ago? Some petty lord hired us to kill off some wildlings in the area. Couldn't risk his men. A craven, but generous with his gold. So, there we were, two sellswords near a wildling's hideout. They were hiding in a cave, looked about to be four to five people. We planned to smoke them out with some burning bark, choke them up so they're easier to surprise and kill. So, we did that, right? Burnt up some wood and threw it in. We waited and waited. And just when we thought that it was empty, guess who came running out."

"Wildling women?"

"A bear."

"A bear!?" Tyrion's surprised at the reveal. "Don't tell me you had to kill that beast?"

"Had to," Bronn shrugs. "If we didn't, then it would've mauled us like it did to those wildlings."

"That's quite a feat, killing the bear," Tyrion admits. "So the bear did your job for you."

"Yep. Easy, got all their armour and everything. This sword," he pats his hip, "got it from some poor sod who had half of his face eaten."

"Huh. That explains why your sword looks so... Ugly."

"Nah, that's from another time. Which I will tell if you pay me with a story of your own." Bronn snaps his fingers at Tyrion, his mood much cheerier than before. "C'mon, I already did the service. now tell me one."

"Alright, alright, I got many choices Let's see..." The wind blowing through the mountains is picking up speed. Buttoning up his wool cloak, Tyrion doesn't know what kind of story will satisfy the sellsword. The man probably had seen many fucked-up stuff than he. _Maybe I can just lie to him, make up my own story. Ah, but what will he do if he knows it's a lie? Well, I could just tell him that it's one of a dwarf's many talents._ "So, there I was, sitting in my father's solar all alone in Casterly Rock. I was a child then, on my tenth nameday, even smaller on account of me being a dwarf. I was just reading a book given to me by the maester about the history of the Lannisters. I was on the page regarding lions and gold when-"

"...Imp?"

"-suddenly I heard a loud crash. A bang right in front of me! When I looked up from my book, I saw the whole shelf full of books and little trinkets have collapsed. The servants ran up to the solar and they, were, FURIOUS! They started yelling and threatening me, saying that I'll-"

"Imp?"

"-be thrown and locked in the dungeon for good. I cried hard, but then my brother Jaime came up to me and-"

"IMP!"

"What, Bronn?" The sellsword has stopped on the side of the road. "I thought you want to hear stories."

"...What the fuck is that?"

Turning around, Tyrion sees something massive moving in the distance. A grey, twisting pillar of dirt and other things, tearing through the valleys. He can see trees and rocks flying like wooden toys, crashing down in great puffs of dust. The wind around him blows into a gale, threatening to knock him off his horse. And the roar... The distant roar like crashing waves and a dragon's screech. He's transfixed to it. Just like that time in the sky cell, or when he saw those shadows as a kid, or-

"Shit, it's coming closer! Run, Imp, RUN!" Bronn is already ahead of him, clearing over rocks and fallen branches.

"W-Wait! Bronn!" Tyrion shouts, having come to his senses. Whatever this thing is, it's coming closer. _And if I stay here!_ "Bronn, I said wait for me!" The horse he's on is not the best, stumbling on some rocks and pieces of wood. It neighs as dust starts to blow all around them, the roar approaching. Before long, pieces of woods and rocks fall from the sky. One hits the horse, sending Tyrion to the rocky ground. The horse's no good anymore. Struggling to get back up, he shouts: "Bronn, come back and help me!"

He can see the sellsword turn around and make a gesture at him. He doesn't look eager to come back.

"Geh, fuck!" Tyrion tries to push past some of the rocks, but the adrenaline and panic is causing him to lose his grip and tumble. He quickly gets back up again, but his hand is bleeding. _Shit-_ "Bronn! The gold Bronn, how about the gold!?" His voice is nearly drowned out by the rushing wind. It's closer now. "You need me alive for the fucking GOLD! GOLDEN DRAGONS!" His voice is getting hoarse.

He can see the man turn around, turn back, and turn again before sprinting to where Tyrion lie. "Damn you Lannisters and your damn gold!" he shouts, grabbing Tyrion by the arm and lifting him up onto the horse.

"And yet you've-"

"Shut IT! Or'll I'll make you really fly!"

The horse quickly gallops down the mountain path. But they're fighting against the wind and the treacherous landscape. Even this far away, the thing threatens to pull them back and tear them to pieces. Before long, the tower of grey descends upon the high road, wreaking havoc upon everything before it. They disembark from the horse and quickly seek shelter behind a large rock as the deafening roar envelops everything around them. Bracing themselves, Tyrion prays. To the Seven, to the Old Gods, and to any others he has read about; he needs them right now. He trembles at its power, fear coursing through his body.

But his curiosity is even stronger. Against his desire to stay safe, Tyrion peeks around the corner to look at it. The thing is massive, stretching high into the clouds and easily wider than the Red Keep's courtyard. Trees are pulled out of the ground and take to the sky while stones dash along the ground. It threatens to pull him but he keeps his ground, holding on to the rock outcropping with his bleeding hands. But keeping his head up and focusing on the thing, he sees something strange. Birds. Crows and ravens flit about at the massive pillar, unaffected by the gale. They flock in strange patterns, dashing all around the area. "Do you see that, Bronn!?"

"Get back here you Imp!" Bronn pulls him back behind cover. "I want my fucking gold!"

And so they wait it out until the roar fades and the wind dies down. By the time they leave the cover, the pillar is already far in the distance, leaving a trail of destruction. The high road is now littered with branches and trees and rocks of all sizes. They see one just behind the rock they're hiding, having been thrown onto the ground with great force and leaving a crater.

"...Tyrion, what the fuck was that?"

"I... I don't know, Bronn. But what I do know is that I need a new pair of breeches."

"Same."

They quickly find their terrified horse between some shrubberies. After calming it down with some berries, they trot down the mountain on the side of the high road. The place is too treacherous now to traverse. As the sun sets, they set up camp near a cold stream. It's easy for them to find branches to make a shelter; that pillar of wind torn all of them off. Heating up their wine and feasting on the last part of their rations, the two sit back and relax. Their worries and troubles slowly melt. Perhaps due to the life and death situation they had just experienced, Tyrion feels comfortable in Bronn's presence. Comfortable enough to tell him stories about his father. And more harrowing ones regarding his first time.

"Wow. Oh wow." Bronn looks at him in pity, sipping on the warm spiced wine. "Your father... How could you just lie there and take it?"

"He's my father, Bronn. Warden of the West, the Lannister Lion," he answers, nibbling on a piece of dried meat and bread.

"Yes, but at the end of it he's still just a man."

"What, you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes."

Tyrion nearly chokes. "Gods, that was a bad joke."

"Not a joke," the sellsword says casually. "If he was my own father, I'll send an arrow right between his eyes. Maybe a crossbow bolt for a man of your stature."

Tyrion wants to reprimand him for suggesting to become a kinslayer, but doesn't have the heart to. The words that came out of the man's mouth is very much fitting for the hardened sellsword. He's only loyal to gold, not houses nor families. Loyal until another person pays upfront. _Even to his own father... Gods, what am I even thinking. I need to be drunk for this conversation._ He fills a cup with the warmed spiced wine and offers a toast beneath the red comet. "To our survival!"

"To our survival!"

**Mountains of the Moon**

By sunrise, the two are already on their way down the high road. If they want to leave the Vale, then they must begin their trek as early as possible. The air is crisp and cold, frost forming on the leaves of trees. He brushes away the ones forming on his hand, blowing on them to keep himself warm.

Only now, with a rested mind and calm heart, that he realises how awkward his position on the horse is. With his small size, Bronn suggests him to sit up front, which is what's usually done to a small child. Bronn's arms are to his sides, holding the horse's reins and keeping him in place. Not only that, but the saddle is not designed with a dwarf in mind. It doesn't take long for him to feel pins-and-needles across his thigh. The stirrup digging into his groin makes it all the more unbearable.

"Gods, how much longer is this high road?"

"I think we're getting closer now, Imp. The trees looks like a forest here."

After a while, the road gradually becomes less steep, allowing them to move faster down the mountain. They gallop at a good pace, to the chagrin of Tyrion's thighs, when they spot a group of men down the road. Bronn halts his horse, but not far enough for them to be hidden. "Shit, bunch of wildlings."

The group approaching them are dressed in rusted armour and a lot of animal fur. Some bear's, some wolf's, and even one of a shadowcat's. They carry weapons with them, broken ones like axes and hammers. _This is bad. I doubt we can get past them easily, especially with me in the seat._ One of the burlier men steps forward, wielding a great war axe and a mighty beard. He seems to be their leader.

"Imp," Bronn whispers, "you know a way around here?"

"I think I do." To Bronn's surprise, Tyrion jumps down from the horse to the laughter of the wildlings. He straightens his clothes and dons his best look. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"What are you doing here, halfman?" speaks the hairy one, his voice deep and gruff. Crows land on tree branches above him. "This here is land for the Free Men."

"Oh, I'm very sorry for intruding your lands. You see, my friend and I," Bronn waves and smiles at them, "are simply looking for a quick way down the mountain towards the Riverlands. Ah, but you Free Men have clans here, right? Tell me, what clan do you gentlemen belong to? I don't want to be rude by calling you by a wrong title." If Tyrion remembers his books correctly, then there should be lots of clans in the Vale. If he can at least make peace with the ones here, he'll get an easy passage through the mountains. _Perhaps make allies as well. My words are important here._

"We're the Stormcrows."

 _Stormcrows... The sellsword group?_ He looks back at Bronn who shrugs. He doesn't recognise them. "Ah, Stormcrows! Forgive me, it's the first time I've heard of your people. Tell me, how goes life as Free Men? You all look more than capable of defending yourselves from other less-than-savoury groups." Tyrion understands that praises are still effective to even the most uncivilised of men. Perhaps more so, for they are inexperienced in courtly politics.

The mountain men look at each other before answering. "There ain't no more clans, boyman. Only Stormcrow."

"...I'm sorry, perhaps my ears are off from yesterday. What did you mean by no more clans?"

"There are no more clans, boyman. Shagga used to be a Stone Crow, but..." The hairy man looks up at the birds above, who watches them with their beady eyes. He shivers before continuing. "The Great Lady Stormcrow. She took Shagga and all clans under her wings. And those that don't... No more."

 _That's... Troubling. It's the first time I've heard of mountain wildlings being under a single leader. For those who pride themselves as free... Times truly are changing._ "Ah, then give Lady Stormcrow my friendly regards. The Lannisters are always welcome to new faces," he lies through his teeth.

"Lannister? You two lionmen?"

"Well, only me. My friend here is just a traveller."

"A word of warning, boyman." Shagga steps forwards, thrusting his axe into the ground. Tyrion flinches back. "You stay out of the mountains. For your own good."

Tyrion gulps. "Yes, we were just leaving."

Shagga turns back to the others and speak to them in a different tongue. _The Old Tongue_ , Tyrion recognises, but he's unable to translate what they're saying. After a short discussion full of grunts and sighs, Shagga returns to Tyrion. "You get on that horse and go through that valley there." He points to nearby valley, filled with crags and a small stream. "Stay clear of trees. There be shadowcats."

"How about other mountain men?"

"By order of Lady Stormcrow, all are free to leave the mountains. Only entry is forbidden."

"But can you truly assure me of that? I've only met you Shagga, so I'm still unsure if others are as cordial as the ones here."

Shagga looks up at the perching crows. One swoops down and lands on Tyrion's head, its claws digging uncomfortably into his hair. "No one will harm you if you have crow. Lady Stormcrow's blessings."

"...Thank you, Shagga. I will take care of it."

With that, the mountain wildlings part ways, heading up the mountain. The birds follow their ascent. Tyrion notices that they are all carrying bags over their shoulders, as if moving camps. "So... What are we going to feed the bird?" asks Bronn.

"I still have some meat," Tyrion answers. "Besides, I'm sure you can feed on insects, right bird? You don't look like a Citadel raven."

"CAW! CAW!"

"Agh," Tyrion coves his ears. "Please, do not crow while on my head. Damn bird."

The two travel down the road and into the valley Shagga pointed out. The bird follows them, flying from tree to tree, sometimes leading the way ahead. It's nicer here, with flowers blooming on the sides of the path. Before long, they come across another group of wildlings, this time looking far less polite than Shagga's group. But upon seeing the crow land on Tyrion's head, they dare not to approach and give them a wide breadth. The same happens to two more unsavoury groups of wildlings, backing away upon seeing the crow. With a last group, one man defies the crow and charges at their horse with an axe. When Bronn pulls out his sword, the other wildlings restrain the attacking one and decapitates him. The head is given to Tyrion as a sign of apology, it's tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"...This is strange," Tyrion says, throwing away the head after a sufficient distance from the group.

"Huh, maybe there is some truth to what they say. A dwarf brings good luck."

"By robbing it from me. Don't you remember that I was the one to be kidnapped? And what of this Lady Stormcrow they speak of? I doubt she's Lysa Arryn; she doesn't really inspire men to join her, and I don't think they fear her as well."

"Maybe a warg," Bronn adds. "Fought one before, had a large wolf. You know what they are?"

"I know what a warg is, Bronn." He looks up at the flying crow. _Is that thing a warg then? Is Lady Stormcrow watching me through the eyes of an animal? Maybe that's how she inspires fear in these strong wildlings for there is always someone watching them._ The thought of it gives him shivers.

By sundown, the two is at the mouth of the valley. Just beyond is the more familiar plains of the Riverlands, a few castles dotted here and there. They set up camp beneath the red comet, eating the last portions of their rations. He gives some of the meat to the bird, which jumps happily at the offer. "You should name it," Bronn says. "Gives us good luck, most likely."

"Hmm... How about... Jaime?"

"Your brother?" Bronn chuckles. "You miss him that much?"

"I do. Even if he can be quite stupid sometimes, he's good at heart. Besides, nothing more fitting than the best knight of the Realm for the one that keeps us all safe." Tyrion yawns, tired and aching from the ride. He retreats beneath his blanket, hiding from the coming night chill. "Let's sleep now, we have to get up early."

"Alright then. Goodnight, Tyrion."

"'Night Bronn," he rolls his face away from the camp fire.

"Goodnight, Kingslayer."

"CAW!"

**Riverlands**

By late afternoon, the two have entered the comfortable grounds of the Riverlands. _Well, comfortable might be the wrong word. This is the Tulies' land, after all, and they kidnapped me for a crime I'm innocent of. Perhaps, familiar is the word._

They avoid the main roads and inns, fearing that Tyrion might get kidnapped by another group loyal to the Tullies. Travelling through the wooded areas, they catch a few birds and rabbits, courtesy to the help of Jaime the crow. "You're smarter than you look, Jaime," says Tyrion, holding two dead rabbits by the ears. "Maybe my brother can learn a thing or two from you."

"Caw?" The bird tilts its head before flying off.

They rest for another day in the woods, avoiding any Rivermen eyes. This time, they eat heartily the birds and rabbits they caught. It has been so long since they've eaten actual fresh meat that by the time they're full, they already licked the bones clean. Jaime, not having been left a scrap, pecks at Tyrion's hand in annoyance.

"Geh, fine. Here, have some marrow." Tyrion grabs a leg bone and snaps it into two. The bird pecks at it before flying into the trees.

"So, Tyrion," Bronn says, picking his teeth with a rib bone, "what's the plan? We can't just linger in the Riverlands all the time. And I need my gold."

"In due time, Bronn. First, we'll head south towards King's Landing where my brother awaits. I'm sure I still have some coffers in the chests somewhere. Then, we'll head west to Casterly Rock. By then, your pockets will be so full of dragons that you'll need an auroch to carry it."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Imp."

Next day, the two head south towards King's Landing. However, not long into their travel, they come across soldiers bearing the red and gold banner of House Lannister. Bronn looks confused at Tyrion. _Wait, why are they here? Is it because of my kidnapping?_ They gallop towards the soldiers who exclaims in surprise upon seeing them.

"Tyrion!" a helmeted man shouts. He lifts his visor, revealing the face of his uncle Ser Kevan Lannister. "By the Gods, you're here! I thought you were taken by the Tullies!"

"I was in the Vale, uncle. Luckily, the dungeons of the Eyrie had no walls. Now may I ask, why is the Lannister banners flying over the Riverlands?"

"I think it's best you speak with my brother. He's at the Crossroad Inn"

 _Even my father is here... What is going on?_ "Thank you, uncle. I'm sure he'll be happy upon finding the heir of Casterly Rock is still alive."

The two trot behind Ser Kevan. The sight of the Lannister encampment is a strange one, knowing that he was kidnapped not far from here. Tents dot the ground as far as the eye could see. _How many are here? Ten thousand? Twenty, thirty? Are they trying to wage a war?_ Crossroad Inn bears the emblems of the Lannisters at its windows. The usual drinking and clamour is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he sees his father brooding over maps and letters in the middle of the inn. "Tyrion," he says, not looking up at his son. "I see that you are well."

"Of course, father. It is great to see you as lively as ever. Though I'm curious, why are you here and not at Casterly Rock?"

"Retribution, Tyrion. The Tullies have done a great disservice to our honour and pride by kidnapping you. In doing so, they've declared you unfit for the seat of Casterly Rock, something I don't take kindly towards. So, we are here to make a point; the Lannisters are not to be trifled with. However," he gestures towards Tyrion, "I don't think we have any need to siege the Eyrie as well."

"Ah, so you do love me."

"I do not, Tyrion. But my status as Warden of the West relies on keeping you alive. May I ask, who is this man next to you?"

"Bronn, a humble sellsword, Lord Tywin," Bronn bows at the balding old man.

"He volunteered as my champion at the Eyrie, father. Managed to prevent me from flying."

"It's great to see that my son has the capability of finding talented men. However," he looks up at Bronn, "right now I'm discussing family matters. I can assure you that us Lannisters will pay grandly for your services and valour. We always pay our debts."

"Of course. You can find me in the arms of liquor and fine women, Imp. See ya around!"

With Bronn gone, Tywin discards his cheery demeanour. He turns to Tyrion. "How much do you owe him?"

"About a hundred dragons."

Tywin sighs, rubbing his head in frustration. His age is clearer now whenever the talk of money is involved. "And why do you owe him that much?"

"He saved my life twice. First by trial of combat, and the other through an incident at the Vale. It was by the skin of my teeth."

"Frankly, I wish he hadn't." Tyrion understands his father's hatred towards him. The Lion still blames his son for the death of his wife. Not only that, but with Jaime becoming a Kingsguard, that only leaves Tyrion as the rightful heir of Casterly Rock. An Imp ruling over a mountain of gold. Now that's a terrifying thought for the Old Lion. "Tell me, what did he exactly save you from?"

"Well, I challenged the Lord of the Vale with Bronn as my champion and he won quite handily. The second... Is stranger. Some foul winds and a massive grey cone ripped through the mountains, tearing trees and rocks alike. He saved me then as well."

"Grey cone?"

"Spinning, dizzying thing of massive girth and height. No name for it, though I can say it convinced me to get a brand new pair of breeches."

"Your tales are getting taller by the day. Sadly, it won't erase the fact that you're a dwarf."

"Yes, your dwa-"

Tywin slams his fist on the table, silencing Tyrion. He doesn't like the constant reminder of the dwarf being his son; a living monument to his everlasting shame. Letting the anger pass over him, he drinks from the cup on the table. It's watered-down wine. "I half-expected you to die to mountain wildlings. And then throw your body down a ravine."

"Well, those wildlings seem to be fairer hosts than Lord of the Vale nor the Warden of the West. Speaking of which," he points at the crow perched on the windowsill, "that's a gift from them."

"A crow?"

"Jaime the crow."

"Gods, it seems that your time there have turned you mad."

"Not mad, father. Lonely. There's a difference. Now," Tyrion pours himself a cup of the wine, "interestingly enough, the mountain wildlings seems to have eschewed their wild and savage traditions and banded together to a single clan: Stormcrow. Under one they call the Great Lady Stormcrow."

"And why should the matters of wild men concern me?"

"ALL of the mountain clans have gathered under her. That's, what, a quarter of everyone in the Vale? More than what previous lords could muster up, that's for sure. And from the looks of it, they're heading up towards the Eyrie. Fear is driving them, father. Fear of this Lady Stormcrow. Things are changing there. But for the better? I do not know." He takes a large gulp of the wine, savouring its sweet and sour taste. _Man, do I miss arbor gold._ "My suggestion is to make allies with them. Who knows? Perhaps we'll have a new Lord of the Vale."

Tywin taps his fingers on the table, digesting the information. "Was Lady Catelyn Tully present at the Eyrie during your leave?"

"Yes, though I don't know if she has begun her descent."

"We must assume she must, meaning that there's nothing to gain by climbing up there."

"Mountain men?"

Tywin glares at his son. "We're lions, Tyrion. We don't stoop so low as to make friends with birds."

"Of course, father," Tyrion bows. He does still want to secure that connection with this mysterious Lady Stormcrow. Whatever his father is doing here, extra hands are still good to have. _Speaking of hands..._ "Regarding this quest for retribution, what about the Lord Hand Ned Stark? Won't he find it distasteful that you're seeking to attack his wife's family? And what of Robert? Surely, even with Cersei as his Queen the drunken oaf will not agree to such actions."

"Robert is dead."

"...What?" _What in the seven hells have been happening since I was locked up!?_

"Well, not dead yet. But soon he'll be."

"Wait wait wait! Please, go back. What happened?"

"A hunting accident. He was gored by a boar through his stomach whilst drunk on the hunt. Lancel was giving him too much wine to drink. Ravens tell me that the King lies dying in his bedchamber, his days numbered. Now, we await the crowning of Joffrey and his naming of me as the Hand of the King."

 _This... This is all too perfect, too well-planned for coincidences._ Tyrion wonders if all of this have been planned in advance. _Shit, that Lancel! That boy has always been so eager to please the King... Don't tell me that Cersei has a hand in this. Did she open her legs for him as well? But lastly, Joffrey..._ Joffrey is what Tyrion worries most. Not only the boy is too young to rule as king, but he has a record. A nasty one if tales of the bodies in the river are true. _Damn it, even that drunken fat oaf is well-liked by the commonfolk._ "So what do we do now?"

"Your brother Jaime won the battle at Golden Tooth not long ago. The Mountain has conquered Harrenhal and should be returning here shortly. Now, Jaime's forces are besieging Riverrun, the Seat of House Tully. It's only a matter of time until they succumb."

"What of the Starks? I doubt Lord Eddard will just dawdle as this is happening." Even without the title of Hand, the Stark still commands the immense power of the North. Rallying against them AND the Riverlands would be suicidal.

"I have faith in my daughter," answers Tywin.

"I don't have faith on what you've just said," Tyrion replies. "Cersei is Queen, yes. But she's a Queen, not Lord Regent and not her son. What if," he leans closer, careful not to be overheard. "What if the boy fucks up? You've seen his temper; there's something wrong with him."

"Are you insulting the Prince?"

"I'm relating to you, father, that my sister has her faults. You put too much faith in her accomplishing this secret goal of yours. What if she fails? What if she does not follow this plan? Who will rein the two in? Starks? Stannis? Renly? Those Baratheons will fight for the right to sit on the throne, father. I'm sure you know that already." Tyrion finishes his cup. If he had just strung all the words right, then he has a chance to go to King' Landing and right whatever the boy might be thinking of doing.

"Hmm... I hear what you're saying, Tyrion. You're asking me to send you to King's Landing."

"I'm not asking you, I'm merely suggesting."

"And what will you do there, I wonder? Spend your dragons on whores?"

"Though I can't say that I will not do that, I will make it my main goal to control the actions of my sister and nephew." Tyrion still wants that whorehouse luxury. It has been so long since his last taste of a woman.

"By being out of my sight. No, you will stay here with me. At least until this campaign is over. It is a good opportunity for you to put the you've read to good use. If you plan on being my heir, then you must be capable of it." Tywin writes some notes down on a piece of paper and hands it to Tyrion. "Gather a hundred men under your command and I will see if you're fit for battle. And take a bath, you smell like shit."

 _So much for the warm reception._ "Come, Jaime. We have work to do." The crow flies out as he opens the door. Now out of the inn, he notices that there are a few crows and ravens about. He could barely tell which one is Jaime and which are not. "I see your friends have come to visit."

"CAW!"

The sky is full of life; well, too full if the guard chasing a crow with a piece of bread in its mouth is anything to go by. _No doubt they're waiting for all of us to die,_ he thinks bitterly. _Pecking out our eyeballs in the battlefield. Hopefully Jaime is too polite to do that._ He looks at the crow, which tilts its head to him. "Well then Jaime, let's go find Bronn."


	5. Born from the Wind and Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion, eager to get his rocks off, makes a big fucking mistake.

**Riverlands**

It has been days since Tyrion joined his father's forces. All through that time they assured him that the news of the King's death will arrive soon. That the Mountain's men will come and aid them in battle.

Days come and go.

None of it came to pass.

Tyrion visits his father's tent for the daily debriefing. Entering the Lion's domain, he sees the usual stern look of Tywin, drinking from a cup of wine. _Shit, this ought to be bad._ Tyrion knows better than to trust his father's expressionless face. The man is not one to drink, especially so early in the morning. Something is on his mind. Tyrion is used to seeing all the signs: the small eye twitches and tapping fingers are the largest giveaways. It's his greatest skill in surviving Casterly Rock. His uncle Kevan is aware of it as well, keeping himself quiet in Tywin's presence.

As there has been no words of the King's death, Tywin has given orders to Jaime to halt his siege for the time being. More than cunning or cruelty, Tywin is careful, for Robert's survival may put his entire plan in jeopardy. _And with the Lannisters being unpopular, it won't take much for everyone to draw their swords against us._

They the discuss what their next moves should be. Kevan, who's getting tired of simply waiting around, suggests that they simply end the siege and take Harrenhal as payment. "It must be worth something," the man says, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Uncle, may I need remind you that we have no words coming from the Mountain as of late. It might be that they encounter some Rivermen and were slain in battle."

"Nonsense," Tywin replies. "The man's a skilled knight."

"A skilled beast with a knight's sword, father. Even you can barely control him. How about this? I send a few of my men as scouts to the region and see what has happened to the Mountain. That way, we don't have to dawdle around this subject."

Tywin sips his wine. "See it done then."

And that's how Tyrion spends the better part of the day: instructing and securing ten soldiers to ride towards Harrenhal as scouts. He's given then direct instructions to remain as hidden as possible, so they've changed their clothes to more inconspicuous ones rather than the Lannister reds.

As night falls, Tyrion goes to sleep in his own private tent. Filled with books and a few chests with trinkets, he feels quite relaxed. _It's much better than just sleeping on some rocks. However, I can't help but think that there's something missing here. Something important..._

It's by morning that he realises what it had been: whores. For the better part of one or two months perhaps, he did not have any action. No companion to sleep with him in the night, and really no pleasures to speak of. So of course, the first thing he does in the morning is find Bronn and ask him to find a good whore. Money is not a problem to him.

Another thing he notices is that today, the amount of ravens and crows in the air is quite extraordinary. The sky is absolutely filled with them. He had never heard that crows and ravens could fly in large flocks, but apparently now they do. Everybody consider them a nuisance as they pilfer not only food but also coins and jewels. Pearls were stolen from a whore's chest while men were swindled by cleverer crows. They're acting less like birds and more mischievous thieves. _I know that those birds are supposed to be smart, but this is getting ridiculous!_

It didn't take long for the soldiers to blame Tyrion for this plague; he brought the first crow here after all. Luckily, he's able to convince them that no, it wasn't his fault that crows began coming here. Though he has his own suspicions about Bronn's words that the crow is a warg's pet, he keeps that to himself. To further secure this, his uncle declares to the soldier an order to exterminate any crows and ravens present in the camp. "That ought to keep these damn pests away," Kevan tells Tyrion.

While Tyrion stays in his tent and feeds Jaime with some hard bread, the soldiers outside begin throwing nets and shooting arrows into the air. Before long, the camp turns into a battlefield full of screams and caws. Curious, Tyrion peeks out of the tent and sees chaos. Though the soldiers have spears and armour, the birds can fly. A small flock descends on a hapless guard, pecking away at his face and eyes. Another flock chases down a running horse, leading it through several tents of soldiers. By noon, most of the Lannisters have given up on ridding the birds. They'd rather secure and lock their supplies and gold rather than deal with another score of blinded men. They lost the ravens in the rookery as well, limiting their communication abilities.

Tyrion, sitting nicely in his tent reading a book, never encounters this problem. Perhaps because of Jaime, the crows and ravens avoid his tent. "If you really are the commander of these birds, Jaime, can you tell them to stop harassing my men?"

"Caw?"

"No, I guess not." He throws a piece of dried meat to Jaime, which catches it in its mouth. "Then again, never heard or seen crows work together like that. Perhaps you're just lying to me with that bird-beak of yours."

"CAW!"

"Lord Tyrion?"

"Yes?" He turns around and sees one of his scout to Harrenhal at the flap of his tent. "Ah, so you two have returned. So, how goes the Mountain?"

"Um, here's the thing, my lord. We... We couldn't find the Mountain nor his men, my lord. Not a horse nor man."

_Did he abandoned his post? No, that couldn't be._ "Did you check nearby towns as well?"

"We went to Harrentown my lord and ask around with the locals. They told us that two things happened to the Mountain. The first is that after some time occupying the castle, half of the Mountain's men ran out in panic. Something about a demon living in there, I hear. Swallowed the man whole."

"A demon? You believe that, Ser Robyn?"

"W-well," the scout wavers, "a bit, my lord."

Tyrion scratches his temple. He chose his men due to skills and loyalty, but he never thought the need to choose them under the basis of intelligence. _I guess that's where I've gone wrong._ "Alright, alright. Enough about demons and snarks. What happened to the soldiers then?"

"Under no leader, my lord, they raided Harrentown. Raped and pillaged as they said. Then, under some sort of priest soldiers, they overcame the men and had them all hanged."

"Priest soldiers? The Faith has no militant."

"It wasn't the Faith, my lord. Some queer religion instead with a wooden shrine. They said the gods live on the Isle of Faces, but not the Old Gods either. The last I saw them they were raising a small force. To defend the Riverlands, they say."

_Now that's a cause for concern,_ Tyrion wonders. If they are getting under the banner of a foreign religion, that will cause huge problems. It'll be harder to negotiate with as they have different values. Perhaps they'll even be antagonistic to the Faith, seeing them as failures. _That would make sense. I've read stories of splinters of the Seven due to war and strive, creating battles and conflicts all across the Realm. The difference between that and a ruler's reign is that the religious are more willing to sacrifice their lives. The superstitious are more terrifying than their gods nor demons. We'll have to be careful with them in the future, lest it spreads like wildfire._ "Alright, Ser Robyn, I'll inform my Lord father about this. Take rest; I'm sure luncheon is still available."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, Tyrion is left alone with Jaime and his book. However, his mind is slowly being preoccupied with worries. Why are crows here in the encampment? Surely, it's not some natural phenomena? He has never heard of crows and ravens moving about like geese or swans during the coming of winter. _And we're still in autumn. The cults, the crows, the comet... Why is it all happening now. And where the hell is my whore?_ Tyrion snaps his book shut and puts on his boots. "Don't tell me Bronn is hogging her all to himself," he says to no one in particular. Finishing his laces, he turns to Jaime. "Ey, don't let any of your friends in, alright?"

"CAW! CAW!" the crow flaps its wings.

"I'll take that as a yes." Tyrion chuckles. The bird is starting to grow on him.

"Excuse me, are you Lord Tyrion Lannister?"

"Who might be asking?" Tyrion turns and finds a black-haired woman opening his tent flaps. "Oh, finally! Yes yes, I'm the Lannister dwarf. Do please come in! Have a seat while I get myself ready."

She enters and sits on his empty seat. As he puts away his book and light a candle, the bird caws and jumps on top of the hat she's wearing. "Hey, Jaime! Don't disturb the nice lady!"

"Oh, that's fine, Lord Tyrion. I'm quite fond of birds myself." She pets the bird's head, which caws in delight. "Quite a nice tent you got here."

Tyrion watches as she crosses her luscious legs, on show from her short skirt. _Oh Bronn, I have to pay you well for finding such a beauty._ "Well, that makes two of us. I can't say the others are so fond of birds right now. Besides," he undoes his belt buckle, eager to get started, "my place back at Casterly Rock is much better. Full of books and other artifacts."

"Oh, you're an avid reader, Lord Tyrion?" the woman perks up. She looks quite young and lively, adorned with beautiful red eyes. "That's quite rare in this Westeros."

"Most men prefer to battle. As a dwarf, I'd rather use my mind for combat. Speaking of which," he takes off his breeches and lets out his already erect cock, brandishing it. He looks back at the sitting woman. "Have you ever had sex with a dwarf before?"

"Hmm, not really. And I usually do it with other women rather than men," she answers, letting out a sly smile from her soft lips. Those supple, luscious lips. _Damn, I really am in a rut._ "Why do you ask?"

"Not much really. Just don't want to surprise you with the Imp, that's all. Now," he claps his hands, "it's been a while, so why don't we just get started. Don't worry, I'm gentle to all my night attendants. Pay well too. First, why don't you open your-"

"Oy Imp, got that whore you wan- Oh, nice cock."

Tyrion snaps his head round and sees Bronn, arm linked with a woman in a dress displaying her cleavage. _Wait, is that-_ He turns back to the black haired woman, now grinning with glee, the crow perched on her shoulder. His stomach sinks. "...You're not a whore?"

"Nope."

"BRONN!" Tyrion shouts at the sellsword, red faced and covering up his drooping member.

"What!?" Bronn chuckles. "I'm not the one with his cock out."

"Go away, please!" The two people at the doorway leave the dwarf and his laughing guest, no doubt to have their own fun. "I'm so, so, very sorry, my lady!" He fumbles with the clasp on his breeches. "I can assure you, this is not how I usually am!"

"Is this a Lannister custom, Lord Tyrion? Greeting ladies with flags at full mast?"

"Gods, don't think of my family like that," Tyrion replies, his very words and actions filled with shame. "Don't let one dwarf taint- No, that's a bad wording..."

The woman laughs heartily at his antics, perhaps the silver lining to all of this. Jaime laughs along with her, their caws mixing together. With flushed cheeks and sweaty brows, he rights his clothes and fills up a cup of wine. He nearly trips from all his shaking. "I am so sorry for what you've seen, my lady," he gives the cup to the woman. "It must have been the worst greeting you've seen."

"Oh, don't worry, Lord Tyrion. It was embarrassing and funny, sure, but certainly not the worst," she answers, sipping up half of the wine in the cup. She takes out a sheaf of papers from her pocket and flips through it. "Who was it again? Oh yeah, met some guy named Shagga in the mountains. Didn't say hello or how are you, just dropped his pants and told me to suck it. Fitting his name, you could say."

Tyrion recognises that name. "Mountain men," he cringes. "Can never be disciplined with those lot. I can assure you, us Lannisters are far more civilised than those wild men. Got your own to deal with them?"

"My friend wanted to, but I dealt with him myself. Cut off his dick and made him eat it. All the others greet me properly after that." She refills her cup. "And don't you worry, Lord Tyrion. Yours was an accident; I will not cut it off."

"Good, since I don't think it'll be a filling meal for either of us. I still plan to use it later." With his libido slowly sinking back down, the haze of lust over his eyes slowly disappears. The woman _is_ wearing a short skirt, but the design is not like that of Westeros. _A foreigner then, so different values and customs._ The hat she's wearing is also odd, being a small piece with red tassels and white cotton hanging from it. Her clothes seem to be made of fine silks, with detailed coloured embroidery of leaves decorating it. And with the hand-held fan tied to her waist and a strange black-and-silver object, she looks to be some sort of noblewoman. A person of a higher class, at least. _Cruelty and power were present in her little story, so I need to be careful here. And that part about the mountain men..._ "Now, why don't we just forget what happened before and greet each other normally. My name is Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin Lannister and heir of Casterly Rock. And you, I presume, are Lady Stormcrow?"

"Lady Stormcrow is not my real name, Lord Tyrion. It's simply the title the people of the mountains gave me. My name is Shameimaru Aya, but you may call me Aya."

"It is nice to finally meet you, Lady Aya. Though may I ask, what brings you down from the mountains? I've heard that you were doing work up there."

"Oh, my work is finished, so it's my friend's shift right now. No, I'm here because of stories."

"Stories?"

"Yes, stories! I always love a good story, whether it came out of the mouth of humans or fish. Now, I heard that there's fighting in the land of rivers. Fish and lions, fighting to the death! Rivers turned red with blood! Such good headlines that I just don't want to miss it! But..." she lets out a long sighs, languishing on the table. "Ayaya... Can you imagine my disappointment, Lord Tyrion, when all I find down here was just a bunch of humans waving their swords around? And I flew all this way as well..."

_Flew?_ "I can imagine, Lady Aya."

"Luckily for me though, the rumours of a dwarf here is true. Just not the kind I had in mind," Aya adds, letting the crow rest on her head. The way she moves and expresses herself reminds him of Jaime the crow, with all the head tilts and twitches.

"Well, I am the one and only Imp, so that must have been worth something," he chuckles, refilling both his cup and the woman's. _Hopefully, if I get her drunk enough she'll let her tongue slip some more. She's already loose-tongued from the looks of it._ "If it's not rude for me to ask, did you bring all the birds here?"

"Just a teensy-bit of distraction to avoid myself getting noticed," she giggles.

_A warg then._ "Now, I doubt you came all the way here with your army of birds to just find stories. May I ask what you want from us Lannisters?"

"Of course!" she beams. "What I want from you is a deal. A little one, not to worry. So, I've recently acquired a beautiful castle seated on a mountain top."

"The Eyrie."

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yes, seat of the Arryns. They've been there for hundreds of years."

"Not anymore," she smiles, emptying the bottle of wine.

_Such casual remarks..._ "So you're now ruler of the Eyrie?"

"Well, that's the problem. You see, I was a bit too hectic on my ascent of the castle and everyone there died. So, I didn't have anyone to rightfully give me the seat or anything like that. That's where you Lannisters come in."

_The Eyrie is even more impenetrable than the Wall,_ Tyrion ponders. _And she had done it with mountain men, no less. Mountain men with inferior arms and weapons. How could it fall so fast and easily?_ "So, you want us to legitimise your rule of the Vale. Is that it?"

"And submit to me as well, yes."

"Su- Excuse me?"

"Hmm?" she tilts her head.

"What did you say?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's a bit forceful for me to just lay it out like that, so let me explain. I want you, your lord father, and your Lannister men, to come under my wings and up to the Eyrie. My mountain men are not very well disciplined, so a more civilised group like you will be great in helping me manage the castles."

"...Lady Aya, do you hear yourself speak? I don't mean to offend but all I hear is the rambling of some madwomen. There's-There's no reason we should indulge in your fantasy, Lady Aya! Sure you've conquered the Vale, but that doesn't mean you can just strut to our camp and demand all the Lannister gold and men!" This craziness warrants him another full cup of wine.

"There is something for you in this deal, Lord Tyrion. We're civilised, after all. Here," she produces an envelope out of her pocket. He glares at her before opening it. Inside... Is a bunch of paper. Some with colours and others with writing on it. "You can have those, and many more, by swearing fealty under me. What do you say?"

"Hmm... How about NO." He throws the envelope to the ground. "I see no benefit indulging some lunatic's demands. You can plunder the Vale all you want, but we Lannisters have everything we need and more. Even your silly white papers."

"Ah, so you're refusing the deal? And here I thought the Lannisters always pay their debts."

"We owe NOTHING to you, Lady Aya."

"Ah, but you do, don't you? What was it again, 'Jaime' the crow?" The bird perches on her shoulder and lets out several squawks and caws. The woman listens intently, much to Tyrion's bewilderment. "You owe me from your safe passage down the mountains, the animals this little girl helped you hunt, and also for the one-hundred and twenty-two crows and ravens killed in your encampment." Jaime lets out a few more squawks. "Oh, but she'll deduct a bit for providing her with meat and bread. She's a sweet bird, isn't she?"

"You keep track of all that!?"

"Of course!"

"CAW!"

"Lord Tyrion, didn't your father wage this campaign of his for one single person? As in, you? Then why is it strange that I demand payments for the killings of my own followers? Is that not what you do here in this Westeros?"

"They're birds! I'm sorry Jaime, you're smart but you're a bird! You're insinuating that, that, the worth of men is less than that of birds and crows." This conversation is slowly turning madder each second, and Tyrion can feel it pounding in his head.

"Of course humans are worthless," Aya says nonchalantly. "They're nothing more than glorified cattle."

_She really is mad._ "Then I'm sorry, Lady Aya. I see no reason to deal with savages who regard men's lives so cheaply."

"But your de-"

"We always pay our debts, yes. See that chest over there?" He points to one lying beneath some clothes. "That's two-hundred gold dragons, enough for all the ravens you could get in the Citadel. Now, why don't you take it and leave? Or I'll call the guards to apprehend you." He sips his wine, frustrated now at the woman's demands. _If this is how she is, then I hope to the Gods that she's as stupid with commanding as she is with negotiating. We're definitely going into conflict later in the future._

But the woman stays in the chair. She sits up straight, all that aloofness melting away from her appearance. Her leaf-fan is slightly covering her face, only revealing her beady red eyes. "Tell me, Lord Tyrion, what do you know about fear?"

"I thought you were leaving," Tyrion says, sitting on his bed and opening the book he was reading.

"Do answer the question, Lord Tyrion. Then we shall leave."

_Gods, the comet really is a sign of bad luck. Should've kept Bronn here to accompany me._ "...Alright, I'll bite. Fear is when I'd rather not pull down my breeches in front of madmen."

"A bit deeper than that," she moves her fan, a slight breeze blowing in the tent.

"What? Alright. Fear is when... I don't want to talk to my father. Happy?"

"That is good, yes. Fear with something connected so personally to you that you're forever molded by it. But that's not what I want. Something simpler and much earlier."

"How about seeing shadows when I was a kid?" he scoffs.

"Precisely," she grins. "Fear runs deep. Why is it then you fear shadows at such a young age?"

"I don't know... Nanny's stories about ghosts?" he sips his wine, a bit amused at the conversation. _The woman seems to like to wax on about some silly shit._

"No no, it is far deeper than that. Did you know, even baby rabbits fear shadows after being born. That is because they know. From their very soul, the fear of their parents and their parents before them and the ones before them; all of it is passed down. Accumulated. It grows and gnaws on them. When the moon first shone onto the world, it created shadows. Night shadows. Something that lurks in the dark when all is asleep, carving fear into the hearts of men and beasts alike. Fear of the unknown."

His tent flaps fluter wildly in the growing wind outside. He can feel a faint chill entering the tent, even under the fiery gaze of this Lady Aya. Tyrion sips more wine, trying to calm himself down. "And so, what? There's nothing in those shadows but wind and plants."

"But once in a while there is something. Unseen to the untrained eyes, it stays hidden in the dark. That's how my people were born, Lord Tyrion. When men imagine what could be in the shadows, they gave birth monsters. When they hear the howls and screeches of the wind, feel the coldness against their back, when they see trees torn to bits by a vicious gale... They gave birth to me, a Tengu."

Tyrion's tent starts to flutter, pegs in the ground pulled out by the movement. He can even hear screams of the guards outside, shouts and caws all mixing into one. "Lord Tyrion," the lady continues, "since the birth of man, they've long revered us and the winds we carry. I gave you that chance, to respect us. To bow before the mighty gale that sail your ships and feed your lands. But you've refused to pay for your debts. So, I will ask from you something different. Like the tempest that devour trees and castles alike, it is one that I enjoy the most.

"Fear."

Tyrion is knocked off his feet as the wind tears through his tent. The sudden brightness of the sky envelops him, but that's not all that he sees. The clouds above begin to spin like a whirlpool, slowly darkening and lowering itself to the ground. Tents, clothes, branches, all manner of things are pulled into the swirling winds. And the birds. The birds are flying around, making patterns in the sky. He recognises them. The thing in the mountain pass...

"This shall be your payment, Lord Tyrion." The woman stands tall, sporting a malicious grin. Even in the roaring winds and the laughing birds, her voice is crisp and stern. Dust and dirt whip through the air, and the forming spiral above threatens to devour the encampment. Horses run and soldiers flee, but Tyrion is frozen in place by the spectacle. The fear.

_I-I need to do-_ "Lady Aya!" He tries to walk forward, holding on to a piece of broken wood and shielding his eyes from debris. "Please, I have a request!"

"You owe me a debt, Lion Cub."

"I-I know that!" He's nearly hit by a flying branch. "However, please! By Westerosii custom, don't you want to-to earn it!? Isn't it uncivilised to simply take what you want!?" The woman doesn't answer back. _Shit shit shit! What do I say, what- AH!_ "I request a duel! A formal, agreement-based DUEL!"

For a moment, the wind falters before picking up again. She walks closer to Tyrion, her strange shoes making her look much taller than him. She frowns, yet hides it well behind her fan. "...A duel?"

"Yes, yes, Lady Stormcrow! A duel, between you and I."

She tilts her head, her beady eyes staring into his own. Crows begin to gather around them. "You will die, Lion Cub."

"No no, not a duel of swords, Lady Aya. I'm at a disadvantage there, and I'm sure a person as civilised as you wouldn't dare play such an unfair game. I propose... A duel of wits."

"Wits?" the crows laugh.

"Yes, Lady Aya. Wits. It is very simple; no actual battles for each of our forces. And that means no... Whatever sorcery this is," he gestures to the chaos around them. "No, we shall battle with information and words. Our minds are the weapons, not the men or soldiers."

"And what's the win conditions?" The woman looks interested now, the winds slowly calming down.

_Shit, what are they? I came up with this on the spot!_ "The one to get the message of legitimacy from the King. Whether that be for my lord father's rule over the Riverlands, or your rule over the Vale. The first to earn those... Wins the duel."

"And if I lose?"

Tyrion, after witnessing the chaos she has brought upon his men, can only think of one thing. "You, Lady Aya, will forgive me for all the debts I owe you. Not only that, but you are to relinquish your rule over the Vale and of the mountain men. What you do after that is up to you, as long as it is outside of Westeros."

She leans close. "What if I win?"

"T-Then, continue on. I will try my best to convince my father to submit, but he's a very stubborn man. Depending on his answer... How forceful you have to be, I don't know."

"I could just spread fear right now, Lord Tyrion. Kill half of your men and let the rest run to tell stories of how the lions were swept up into the clouds."

"W-Well, that doesn't sound very civilised, Lady Aya. In fact, it sounds to be very much in line with human savages." Upon the comparison, the woman's eyes turn cold. _She really does believe herself as a non-human. A mad sorcerer, a powerful one at that. At least with that taunt..._

"Alright then, Lord Tyrion," she reaches out her hand, smiling. He grabs it and her nails dig into his hand. He winces in pain. "I will agree to your conditions. It has been a while since I had a good duel myself, and I hope this will be a good entertainment for me."

"By the Seven and whatever gods you worship, I swear to you Lady Aya that none will disrupt our duel." This is still unsure for Tyrion. When his father sees all of this, it's not unthinkable for him to then march towards the Vale. _It'll be something drastic that will convince him to ignore her chaos._

The woman pulls out her sheaf of papers and begins writing something down with her metal quill. Before long, she tears it off and begins writing another one. All the while, Bronn and the other Lannister soldiers are watching the deal happening right in front of them. She hands him the pieces of paper, bearing strange runic writings. He doesn't recognise it from any of his books. "Could you please sign both of them? Simply an assurance for this duel of ours."

He looks at her warily before signing it. "I hope you keep your promise, Lady Aya."

"A Tengu never lie, Lord Tyrion." She takes one of the signed papers and stuffs it into her pocket. "Well, let us meet again in the future. We'll have much to talk about. Cheers!" With that, all of the birds and crows around them take off in a flurry of wind and darkness. For a split second, he could see her form sprouting a large pair of wings. She disappears in an explosion of feathers and dust, along with all the birds. All that remain is a single crow; the precocious form of Jaime.

Tyrion feels weak in his legs and collapses back, lying on the grassy remains of his tent. He lets out a weak laugh at the absurdity of it all as Jaime perch herself on his stomach.

"Imp!" he hears Bronn shouts as the man runs towards him. "Are you alright?"

"Shaken, Bronn... Very much so... But alive."

"Who the fuck was that!?"

"That," Tyrion gulps, "that was the Lord of the Vale."


End file.
